


Curious Fish

by Dapperscript, merrythoughts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Biting, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Moriarty, Daddy Kink, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Freeform, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inappropriate Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Mental Instability, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Post-Season/Series 01, Recreational Drug Use, Roleplay Logs, Sadism, Sassy Sherlock, Sorry Not Sorry, Switching, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-12-08 17:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11651724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/pseuds/Dapperscript, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: So, Jim Moriarty waits in a dark penthouse hotel room like a proper villain. He’s dressed in a fine suit, his tie the color of blood. The room overlooks London, a silly little city that thinks it's far more important than it really is. Earlier in the day he'd sent text messages to his favorite consulting detective:Care to fall down the rabbit hole with me? - JMPS, no pets allowed. Come alone. - JM[Post series/season 1, canon divergent of the indulgent enemies to lovers variety]





	1. You first

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written as a roleplay with alternating povs. Read if you want, skip if it isn't your cup of tea.  
>  **Merry** : I blame my co-author/partner in crime as I used to be a JohnLock shipper and then last week I fell down into this hellhole and am loving it. 8D We may attempt to write masterminds, but we're dumbasses. Please be gentle, there will be mistakes. We're not British, too (orly?)  
>  **Dapper** : Consider this more a character study/test than a plot-centric story. We never plan things out beyond 'this'd be cool!' Also it's been years since I've so much as watched the series. This is for fun. And because we're horrible human beings :3
> 
> Enjoy! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Moriarty written by merrythought ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Sherlock written by the amazing Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com))

Curiouser and curiouser... Sherlock Holmes is a funny fellow. A funny fellow, in that funny hat, doing funny things. Like playing the hero - the good guy - running around London and solving crimes. Funny little detective man. But it's not even as if Sherlock _wants_ the crimes to stop, for what would Sherlock do then?

Crime wouldn't stop, of course. There would always be bad eggs. And good eggs like the bland John Watson, Sherlock's faithful dog. _'Ruff, ruff! I'll trail along and after you do all the hard work (while I look gobsmacked by your brilliance), I'll write in my little blog how quirky and clever you are because I'm boring and have nothing important to contribute.'_

Ridiculous. Friendship with a mutt. John was at least potty trained (hopefully). A canine companion who tried valiantly to keep Sherlock's nose out of trouble and pointed in the right direction. Moriarty wants that nose deep in trouble, thank you very much. Take a whiff of the flowers, John, the cloying sickly sweetness is overrated. He'll make Sherlock see. He'll make him understand where the real fun exists. Hint: it's not saving DI Lestrade's arse repeatedly.

So, Jim Moriarty waits in a dark penthouse hotel room like a proper villain. He’s dressed in a fine suit, his tie the color of blood. The room overlooks London, a silly little city that thinks it's far more important than it really is. Earlier in the day he'd sent text messages to his favorite consulting detective:

 **Care to fall down the rabbit hole with me?** **\- JM**

 **PS, no pets allowed. Come alone.** **\- JM**

The next text message had been the hotel, the room number and the time. So, now Jim strolls the lavish space humming 'God Save The Queen' and waits as patiently as he can. He's hoping Sherlock will be early, you know, to be polite and all.

 _Come Alone_.

* * *

The _Shangri-La Hotel_ is arguably one of the most opulent in the London area. Outside, the city passes by in a blur, the lights of London bright and streaking by in an endless web as the cab drives on, but Sherlock's attention is entirely on his current task. The cacophony in his mind has quieted to a dull roar and the gnawing ache of boredom is blissfully abated for now. Though there is no need to, Sherlock slides his phone from the pocket of his long coat to double-check. Sure enough, the hotel is listed with the room number and a time. It's signed with nothing more than a 'JM' and Sherlock feels the same frisson of anticipation he'd felt when he'd received the text earlier that day.

There is a mild twist of guilt within. John is out with Sarah and isn't aware that Sherlock has even left the flat. However, more than the guilt of sneaking out on John is the fact that - by rights - he shouldn't want to be here in the first place. Sherlock recalls the five timed cases, recalls the thrill - the bliss of an active mind better than any drug to fill his veins or curl within his lungs. Yet he remembers the dead just as well. Remembers an old woman. Sherlock's grip on his phone increases, the plastic creaking, and then he slides it back into his pocket. People die. People just aren't supposed to die on his watch. Not when death correlates directly to one of his miscalculations.

He pays the cabbie without a word when they arrive and then steps out into the humid London air. The hotel rises majestically above him, far too large and far too open. Each room is windowed. Sherlock's gaze flicks quickly from one corner of the building to the other, then up the long steepled spire. He checks his watch. 21:15. He's fifteen minutes early, but he doubts he will be penalized for this. Were the situations reversed (and it is mildly troubling how simple that is to picture) he would appreciate haste instead of lethargy.

Sherlock's steps are whisper-quiet on carpeted floors once he exits the elevator on the top floor. The penthouse suite seems fitting, though it is a bold choice. From the outside he remembers the open windows, the view. Snipers, possibly. He'll need to watch for those. Sherlock says nothing to himself as he approaches the room number indicated and hesitates. Then, curious, he reaches a hand out to the handle instead of knocking and is not surprised when it depresses easily. Even so, he is careful in opening the door and stepping inside.

The _click_ of the door as he closes it behind him sounds like the final nail in a coffin. Whether it is his own or not, he doesn't know.

* * *

Two men walk into a hotel room: one is the world's only consulting detective, the odd Sherlock Holmes, and the other is Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind... What fun shall they have? What awaits the two intrepid men? Will there be a spark and a bang? Will there be danger, swashbuckling adventure and a pretty woman to save at the end of the day?

Ugh. Women could be so _shrill_ while screaming. They often gave him a headache. Torture could be tedious business. All the tears and wailing. The theatrics, thinking that begging and pleading could _do_ something like change his mind. That's why Jim Moriarty left the torturing to the hired muscle. Usually. But sometimes it’s just good fun to rip off nails and smash kneecaps.

His mobile goes off and he pulls it out, eyes lighting up at the text message informing him that Sherlock had arrived and was making his way up. Goody goody gumdrops! Moriarty pockets his phone in his suit jacket and strides over to the door... Where he then lies in wait in the closet - proper villain and all, remember? Sherlock deserves a nice little silly scare. He hopes he's wearing the silly little hat.

When the handle twists, Sherlock walks in and closes the door. Moriarty's grin falls - no silly little hat then... He pops out and deadpans an unenthusiastic, "Boo."

* * *

The hotel room is as ostentatious as the exterior of the hotel but given the personality of the man behind the text, this comes as no surprise. Sherlock stands with his hand to the door, long fingers lingering against the varnished surface as he looks about the room quickly. Nothing seems out of place, though he still catalogs it all, from an unopened bottle of wine on the far table (is he too early? Surely not, the door would have been locked tight, not deliberately open) to the slight depression in one of the chairs closest (Moriarty).

Sherlock looks to the floor for wires, leaning his head to change the angle of the light just so. Opulent as his tastes run, Moriarty has long-proven his admiration for the destructive power of nitroamine and its subsequent components. Erring on the side of caution is intelligent. He's on high alert when he looks around the room, tension seeping into the stiff set of his shoulders, so when the the closet close to him suddenly wrenches itself open, Sherlock twitches. He doesn't jump. He merely steps away cleanly to turn and face the threat and something in his chest burns hot at the sight that greets him.

Jim Moriarty. Anticipation, anger, uncertainty and excitement all vie for top position in Sherlock's mind, but nothing lands on his expression. Instead his hands merely come to rest at his sides as he looks Moriarty over quickly. (Dark suit, red tie - blood red, definite violent connotation). He can see no visible gun - Sherlock has one; despite what John says, he has sense by times - but that doesn't mean the open windows won't be a danger.

Anticipation burns hot in his chest. He has no idea what to expect. "The monster in the closet?" Sherlock inquires, idly judgmental. "Under the bed would have been more fitting."

* * *

Well. Sherlock twitches. There's no yelp of surprise or jumping. Just a slight twitch. And then the detective steps away. It's a little disappointing, but he’s not gutted over it. It's a manageable disappointment, for it doesn’t require copious amounts of drugs or sex to bear it. At least not yet. The night's young, though. There is still time to be let down. People are good at that, after all. Other than being fragile, people excel at being disappointing. This is what Moriarty has experienced for most of his life. The fucking enduring dullness, a dreary fucking state of being that at times makes him want to bash his brains in.

Jim's eyebrows rise as he gives a thoughtful expression, feigning to think on the suggestion. The bed, hah! Like he would get to the floor in _this suit_ and slither underneath the bed. "Maybe, baby but then I couldn't have jumped out, you know? I do rather like jumping." He gives a little jump to prove his point, a manic smile on his face, eyes wide. What fun they shall have...

London's lights are the only illumination they have, shadows playing all around them. Two men enter a hotel room... Does he have snipers on the adjacent building? Of course he does! What kind of criminal mastermind would he be if he didn't? Honestly. Does he have a gun? No, but he's betting Sherlock Holmes is packing.

His hands form into fingerguns suddenly and he points them at Sherlock. He has a gun now too. Two guns. Bang, bang!

"Did you bring a weapon here, Sherlock Holmes? Did you come with a heavy weight in your pocket and a debt to settle... Come to slay the monster and save the fair maiden? But isn't that rather borrrrring?" He pauses for a moment as he advances on Sherlock. "I would rather make friends with the monster. This monster knows how to have fun."

* * *

Genius level intellect hidden behind a manic facade. On another, Sherlock would simply find it grating. A part of him finds _this_ grating, and yet the rest of him is very aware of what Jim Moriarty is not only capable of but also that there is something in this interaction he's meant to understand. Is it reckless to seek a madman out? Yes. It is also _intriguing_ in a way little else is and Sherlock has never been a man to court tact and safety. It hardly matters that Moriarty had claimed to want him dead when they'd last met. He won't kill him here; it would be _boring_ , and Moriarty is a man who understands, who craves distraction with the same intensity as Sherlock. Still, he glances down at his chest quickly; no red dot stares back at him. If snipers are on the adjacent rooftops, they are waiting on a command that has yet to come.

So when Moriarty's fingers both shoot out, _that_ is enough to make Sherlock twitch himself back out of range. He is reckless, but he isn't bloody _stupid_. While lingering thoughts of John's disappointment if he was made aware of Sherlock's recklessness do bother like a particularly irritating gnat, the possibility of something engaging is too tempting. He'd never claimed to not be selfish. Nor does he care that he is.

Sherlock doesn't relax, but he does recover his posture when it becomes apparent that there are to be no bullets shattering the glass. Instead there is just a man - just Moriarty - advancing upon him. He looks at him, gaze quick and fleeting, calculating anew, weighing what he sees. (No limp, no uneven gait, knees bent accordingly - no extra weight on him, _no gun_ ). Therefore Sherlock merely reaches back to set a hand over his pocket. It's nothing more than a warning - a boring warning he has no plans at following through.

Jim Moriarty is not interesting _dead_.

"Assurance. Nothing more," Sherlock dismisses, and takes a single step closer. He dislikes people in his personal bubble of space, but the frequency surrounding Moriarty feels like it meshes with his own. The same monster, the same crazy, though on different sides. It's _interesting._

"What does this monster want badly enough to offer up his location? The police could be on their way as we speak." They're not, and Moriarty knows it. Sherlock is not so dull.

* * *

How long has he been suffering? The answer was 'too long.' Moriarty has been bored and playing with _lessers_ for too long. Alone, wandering around this abysmal planet and surrounded by people getting excited about being social justice warriors and the like. Protests and picket signs and yelling about the evils of Muslims and women's rights and the sanctity of marriage. And yet the same individuals were up in arms when their expensive cappuccino was too foamy. ' _Off with the baristas head, my cappuccino is far too light. You'd better believe my third husband shall hear about this_!'

Although, really, paying for _foam_ is a little ridiculous. Thus Jim prefers a latte. He knows Sherlock likes tea. Well, Jim can do tea as well. Perhaps they could have a tea party. Next time because two men have entered a dark hotel room, there's no time for tea, for Sherlock has a gun. A loaded weapon, waiting for a hand to wrap around it and a finger to squeeze the trigger and make jelly art.

Moriarty delights in the twitch his fingerguns elicit. Likely Sherlock is assuming this is a sign for the snipers to shoot. How dismal! He wouldn't have a mere sniper take out Sherlock. He hasn't burned the heart out of him yet, Moriarty's work is not done. At the very least, Sherlock deserves a more elaborate demise than being riddled with bullets. How pedestrian a death that would be.

But Sherlock doesn't disappoint, he recovers and steps _closer_. Do you feel that Sherlock? That's fate calling, _ring-a-ding-ding,_ it would like you to drop your ruse of the noble do-gooder. Solving cases, helping Mycroft out, being the subject of blog entries - it's all rubbish and rubbish gets taken out to the curb and discarded. At least that's where he thinks it goes. Moriarty doesn't take it out. Anyway, Sherlock's mind should be _his_ to play with. Villains could have sidekicks, or pets. Maybe the pet could eventually graduate and move up. What a lovely day that would be...

"Oh, I doubt the coppers are on their way and even if they were, I wouldn't hesitate to have them shot down like dogs," Moriarty says casually and mimics pulling the trigger a few times with a soft 'bang, bang!' because fake weapons need accompanying sound effects. Always.

"We could play Cowboys and Indians," he offers and blows on his gun need before miming that he's holstered them on his hips. "But I have a better game in mind." His tone is lower and he bats his eyelashes at Sherlock. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket and he produces two circular red pills that have ':)' on them.

"One for you, one for me. Under the tongue and then you're on top of the world and your mind is hushed like a stillborn babe."

* * *

John would have called Lestrade at the first hint of Moriarty's whereabouts but John doesn't understand this insufferable boredom. A lull in activity to him is a time to turn on trash telly or go out for a pint. For Sherlock it's maddening, the equivalent of a severe caffeine rush with nowhere to put the energy, only worse. Perusing unsolved cases online only brings him so far and without investment in them, what's the point? In that way, Sherlock supposes, John has spoiled him. A personal investment means more payoff when he's clever. But there are only so many avenues open to him when trying to solve cases online. There's no pictures of evidence taken with a camera specific enough for his needs, and there's no smell or taste or touch to rely on. No, John would never understand why Sherlock hadn't merely called Lestrade immediately.

Moriarty does. He does because he understands boredom, because he's _interesting_. Even this close to the man, manic as he is with the juvenile sound effects for his 'guns', there's a calculated intelligence in those dark eyes that Sherlock can understand. Moriarty has learned to play the game constantly. It's the same game Sherlock plays when he becomes a bumbling fool to trick a man into confessing, or the same game he plays when he smiles sweetly at Molly and compliments her lipstick until she steps aside and allows him into a lab he should never have been permitted access to. Oh, Sherlock doesn't doubt there is some sincerity to the act. Men of their caliber are not without their own issues, but the important thing is not the way Moriarty's voice emotes so effortlessly as his eyes remain dull. The important thing is that he _would_ kill the police in a heartbeat were Sherlock to call them.

Luckily for them, he hadn't. Sherlock watches Moriarty 'holster' his guns with a slight twitch of his lips. He is fascinating, and that fascination only increases when Moriarty reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two small red pills. Sherlock's attention is on them in a heartbeat. Immediately he looks at the size and shape, the color, the colon and right parenthesis stamped on the top. Jeff Hope flashes quickly through his mind before he dismisses the idea. Moriarty is not so dull as to use the same tactic again - one poison, one safe, or so it had seemed. Sherlock doesn't realize that his small frown has betrayed him and edged into a small smile until he feels the pinch of skin that accompanies it.

"A game. Two pills. Seems rather familiar to me. What kind of _game_ are you suggesting?" Sherlock asks, but he's already chancing a small glance and reaching out to take one of the small pills. Clearly the sight of it doesn't fill him with dread.

"The kind where I take a chance that it's not deadly? The kind where I take it without asking what you're intending I take?" Already Sherlock's mind is racing through possibilities. Sublingual administration suggests an immediate absorption into the bloodstream. Nitroglycerin, certain vitamins, steroids - all with specific chemical make ups. Certain medication for mental health conditions also apply but he doubts he's being given anything so commonplace. No, whatever this is will be a kick to his system and the not knowing is thrilling.

"Would it be horribly cliche to say ' _you first?'"_

* * *

He'd said no pets allowed, although Moriarty is certain he shall invite John along sometime soon. The three of them would have a grand time, this he's certain of it. A tea party for three (for John, too, likes tea). John Watson may be a simpleton, but John has somehow captured Sherlock's attention and a cloak of friendship had landed on his shoulders. Jim wants to rip that abhorrent cloak off. If he's to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, John must pay. Same with the Hooper girl. And yes, the old lady below 221B. Everyone would be squeezed and twisted into uncomfortable positions for Sherlock to watch.

Moriarty knows of Sherlock's vices. There were the cigarettes and then the nicotine patches. When it's bad, there's the heroin. Self-medicating. He's been there. Take that restlessness, _hyah_ , jab a needle in the vein and depress the plunger. Feel the rush, the warmth, the bliss explode through him... But withdrawal is unpleasant and needles are unsightly. Moriarty has his own chemist, of course. A little peevish man who's cooked him up this happy little pill that's tailored to his specific needs. Jim has a feeling that his consulting detective here has similar needs. They shall find out!

Jim's eyes are curious as he watches Sherlock's mind flicker through the possibilities. Right, Sherlock, you know there's no poison contained in the tablets. Let's see that smile, ah yes, there it is! Hooked, little fishy, yes, yes you are. Moriarty likes this fish. Not so little, actually. Sherlock's a tall fish, but Jim isn't intimidated by the height difference. He's a feisty fish and he know he can beat this fish into submission. A fish fight. His own lips curve into a formed smile as Sherlock takes the offered gift. Perhaps the next time he'll put it in a little box with a bow. And then he'll put himself in a bigger box with a bow. It would be a present of Jim Moriarty who in turn had another present. What a lucky boy Sherlock would be.

"The chemical makeup is a secret," Moriarty shrugs and steps closer. About a foot separates them. He looks up at Sherlock. "It's my very own cocktail, custom-made." His other hand comes to grab onto the lapels of Sherlock's dramatically long jacket.

"I'll go first if you place it under my tongue. I promise I won't bite." He may not be smiling, but the glee is evident in his voice.

Would Sherlock bite? Would Sherlock take the other pill still in the outstretched hand or would he use the one he'd previously selected? Moriarty opens his mouth wide and lifts up his tongue in waiting.

* * *

It's a challenge in return. _You first_ is juvenile perhaps but it is no less taunting than Moriarty pulling the pills out of his jacket pocket and holding them out. It's a dare and Sherlock watches curiously as a multitude of quick emotions flicker behind Moriarty's eyes. The problem with this man is that Sherlock cannot fathom his emotions. Never has he met another who is able to so effortlessly not only mask true emotion but build an entire persona around a simple facade. Sherlock is certain that John sees Moriarty as unhinged, and he is. That doesn't stop the man from being brilliant, from being interesting, and that is what Sherlock needs right now.

So Moriarty ups the ante in return, thinking... thinking what? That Sherlock is not able to bend to these levels? To risk putting his fingers near the crocodile's maw? He looks down at Moriarty, at the thin, arched eyebrows - no tinted wax this time, no _Jim from IT_ \- at nearly beetle-black eyes and a face that is by all accounts deceptively normal. What wicked, twisted little wires have frayed and broken away to form new pathways in Moriarty's mind? What cunning and intellect is hidden behind them? How deep does his well run, how vast is his spun web? The questions burn because Sherlock doesn't _know_ , and the fact he doesn't know is thrilling.

So the dare is simple. Sherlock looks down at Moriarty, at the proximity, at the way he opens his mouth. At the way Moriarty's hand fix around the lapel of his jacket. For a moment Sherlock studies both pills. No chemical information, but Moriarty is willing to leave it to chance. Either he's built up a tolerance or there's nothing inherently dangerous within them. Either way this is still a risk but the task dared to him is the least of his problems. Sherlock considers the possibilities for a few calculated seconds and then reaches out. He fits the pill he'd selected for himself under Moriarty's tongue, fitting it in the proper place to be quickly absorbed, and then he merely reaches down for the pill left, taking it from Moriarty's hand.

Sherlock lifts it quietly. "A toast then, to the cocktail of your own making," he announces with faux enthusiasm. There's a small frisson of worry within, a small voice that sounds remarkably like John that warns him it could be a sedative, or that Moriarty could be feeling particularly suicidal. Sherlock considers it only for a moment before he opens his mouth and lifts his own tongue, imprinting the grammar symbols in against his skin.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a little boy named James Moriarty. He wasn't very well liked by the other children in his neighborhood or at school, but that was fine by him. He was frequently found observing the world around him and constantly looking for distractions. He was never content and wasn't very good at keeping his nose clean. Ten-years-old and James had already been carted around to various specialists and professionals, his dear mum and dad hoping there was a fix for his mania and mood swings, a cure for the violent urges and lack of empathy. Well, there wasn't and most of the drugs they forced on him simply made him hazy and angry.

And now he's the head of a vast terrorist organization, filthy rich, he's got dirt on countless politicians and the like, but he still finds himself bored. Fancy that. Consulting criminal - it had a nice ring to it - but even crime could get dull. All around him the dense and ordinary people scurried about, catching the train, heading towards a sale, attending church - being useless. Dull, dull, dull. Until Sherlock Holmes appeared. His tall fish, his funny man with the funny hat doing funny things. His nemesis. The other side of the coin. Consulting detective. Oh, he hopes this man lives up to or exceeds expectations.

Mouth open like a bird waiting for its mother to feed it, Jim waits and watches Sherlock consider the game, blue eyes looking between each of the pills. Eeny meeny miny moe... Sherlock's original choice is selected and he places the smiley face underneath Jim's tongue, to the right of his frenulum. Jim lowers his tongue and then closes his mouth while he gives Sherlock an appraising look, _your turn, mate._ The pill is taken from his hand and Moriarty couldn't be more thrilled that he shan't be alone on this trip.

He hums his agreement when Sherlock proposes a toast that they cannot possibly manage. The drug dissolves steadily underneath his own tongue while he watches Sherlock take the tablet and join him in the drug use. _Bottoms up, baby._ It will take a least a minute for the tablet to dissolve so Moriarty does nothing but look into Sherlock's eyes, one hand tightly holding onto the funny jacket still.

The first effect is a rush of warmth and euphoria. Unease and tension vanish, malaise and disappointment are nonexistent. The noise in one's skull _dulls_ for once, like the soft chatter in a university library. The next noticeable effect is elevated sensations and this makes sex quite a bit more worthwhile of an endeavor. He wonders how the Virgin will find it... What Jim specifically likes about this compound is that it doesn't give or take away energy. If he wished to sleep, he could, but he's not doomed to stay awake either. It is a rather lovely cocktail. It doesn't taste especially good, but he can't have everything apparently...

* * *

Don't take candy from strangers. Don't walk alone at night. Don't put unidentified objects in your mouth. Advice from decades past, knowledge throughout the ages, and Sherlock runs it through without so much as a thought. The pill is dreadfully bitter, but aside from the initial touch, nothing is immediately apparent. There's no familiar taste, no hint of an analgesic, no benzodiazepine. The instant warmth that rushes through him with heroin isn't the same, or at least isn't immediately apparent, and as Sherlock holds the pill under his tongue, as it dissolves, he hardly blinks, hardly dares to look away from the intense way James Moriarty is meeting his eyes.

It's a challenge, a reminder that this is not a solo endeavor. Moriarty's hand is tight in the lapel of his jacket and Sherlock makes no move to shove him away. Instead he traces the line of the crisp dark suit Moriarty has chosen to wear, notes the severe red of his tie again, and when he does dart a look back up to his eyes, he notes an ever-so-slight flush to Moriarty's skin. A thrill of something shoots through him; whatever this is, they have both taken it together. No ploy, no deception, only balance.

The first hint of it hits Sherlock seconds later. There's an immediately gathering warmth that climbs within, from his toes, up the line of his legs, out to each of his fingertips. Heroin is an immediate flush of heat, a blinding euphoria that can never be matched again, though the side effects are often undesirable. More than once, Sherlock has found himself doubled over with nausea while still riding the euphoric high but he rarely cares. Nicotine focuses him, but heroin clears his mind. This, though... this is another matter altogether. He calculates the warmth - vasodilation - and as the pill disappears, broken down under his tongue, the first rush of something _else_ begins to flicker into his focus. Warmth stokes a sort of pleasure that quickly grows into a relaxation that Sherlock has only ever found at the height of a high.

He can feel the flush to his face, can feel a telltale weight and tingling in his fingers as his limbs slowly begin to lose rigorous tension, and it's an effort to maintain eye contact and not just close his eyes and lean into this new, pleasant void. Not poison. Not lethal - as far as he's aware. This seems to be precisely what Moriarty had claimed it to be and before long, even the sensation of Sherlock's long jacket - the tighter grip Moriarty has near his collar - begins to feel quite nice.

* * *

Balance - yin and yang, karma, auras, yoga and other pretentious bullshit are things Moriarty has never cared about. But he does consider the aesthetic appeal of Sherlock being his counterpoint, the light to his dark, the good to his evil, but all Moriarty wants to do is get Sherlock messed up. He wants to bleed inky blackness all over him. (No, bleach wouldn't help, sorry Mrs. Hudson.) He wants to stain that pale skin, taint Sherlock, fuck him up. Fuck him over... Fuck _him_? Sure, why not. Enough men weaponized their pricks, conquest and claiming. Funny business.

They're quiet as they consider each other, the tablet steadily dissolving and entering their bloodstream. Molecules flying through their veins and tinkering with neurotransmitters in their brains. Get out the wrench and start banging on the pipes, let's see what madness shall ensue!

Moriarty smiles as he sees his wondrous little pill start to take effect on Sherlock. The high is more subtle and controlled than heroin, likely Sherlock is used to an overwhelming whomp of a hit, but where was the fun in getting knocked on one's arse? While withdrawal would always be a thing, with his delightful drug, it was much more manageable to that of heroin. A little bit of shaking, a little bit of discomfort, grumpiness, but no vomiting or cramping.

His eyes light up. "Yes, there it is," Jim sing-songs happily, limbs feeling warm and loose as he observes Sherlock relax marginally. His hand let's go of the coat lapel and reaches out to give a fond pat to Sherlock's cheek.

"The clarity. The _shhhhh_... Let's get a drink and take off your coat. Stay awhile, hmm?" Moriarty spins around with a flourish and begins unbuttoning his suit jacket. He leads the way into the adjoining kitchen and pulls out two sealed water bottles. Always important to stay hydrated while taking your drugs, kiddos!

* * *

There is often a sensitization of the brain under the influence. Alcohol dulls for all people seem to believe the opposite, but to provoke sensitivity, to court the line between normalcy and allodynia is a fine line that only careful administration of certain drugs can accomplish. Sherlock doesn't close his eyes even as he feels his thoughts settle, distant supernovas burning bright and then fading from the night sky of his mind. John would think him mad to actively partake of a possibly illicit substance in the penthouse suite of _Shangri-la_ to begin with, much more so with his present company. But even as warmth slowly licks through him, hooking itself into his limbs to add a relaxing weight to his posture, he is not concerned. Calling him out, sharing this moment with him, only to shoot him? To tell him to jump from the balcony? _Boring_. The only risk here is in Moriarty's actual motives.

Before his thoughts quiet properly, he has the immediate thought of a sample doled out on the side of the street and the words, 'the first one was free; now you need to pay' and then he can't fully bring himself to care. He simply hums a soft sound in the back of his throat, something tuneless. It's a near-silent acknowledgement of Moriarty's words. Clarity, silence, the roar in his head quieting to a blissful whisper that is interrupted only by the sensation of a hand patting his cheek.

Something dizzying and warm bleeds out from the touch like ink bleeding into parchment paper and Sherlock turns his face away belatedly, finally blinking through the slight haze of warmth left behind. The sensation of touch to his skin lingers like Moriarty has left something behind and Sherlock isn't certain whether he likes it or not. It's different, though, and different is _good_. It's interesting and new, and not monotonous, and it's the reasoning for why he looks after Moriarty and then reaches up to undo his scarf, fingers only mildly clumsy on the buttons of his long coat. They don't shake, which is a pleasant surprise. No tranquilizer then. Perhaps a drug to target the nervous system but his breathing doesn't feel labored. Sensory nerves then?

It's a puzzle he muses on as he slowly takes his coat off and follows after Moriarty with long, even strides. The black suit jacket beneath matches the black slacks, but the crisp white button-down he wears under only serves to heighten the color to his skin, the flush to it. The heat is mildly irritating given London's general humidity but the relaxation it brings with it is blissful. Sherlock follows Moriarty to the kitchen and after a moment, he folds his coat double and sets it neatly over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen. He doesn't move far away from his gun, just in case.

"Clarity, silence, a drink in mixed company... deceptively civil, deceptively simple," Sherlock says, though he sounds lazily pleased.

* * *

Jim watches Sherlock drape the coat and scarf neatly on the back of the chair. Hooks and pegs and hangers are good for clothing, yessir. They're also good for hanging people. Sometimes. Maybe he should string people up more often. The trouble with torture is that people aren't always that formidable - passing out and skin tearing, nasty business. Not fun when they didn't last.

He slides the water bottle over on the counter. If Sherlock wants it, he'll have to get it himself. Moriarty isn't on the business of taking care of children.

"Well, I can't be evil all the time," Jim replies, idly amused. He cracks the seal on his own water before taking a large swig. H2O, boring, but essential. Maybe that's how Sherlock thought of John Watson - boring, but essential. Well, too bad. Moriarty plans on snatching that used toy up. No pets for Sherlock unless approved by him.

He recaps his bottle, placing it on the counter. Moriarty loosens his tie. No need to be so formal. Not now that they're using together. It's a brotherhood in and of itself. Not that he thinks of Sherlock as his brother. That would be odd. He closes his eyes and inhales. He feels light and liberated and he's not alone and no one is nattering away. It's rather pleasant.

Jim opens his eyes and begins working his tie off in loose motions. "You don't fuck your dog do you?" He knows it's a 'no' but it's time to be a little uncivil.

Sherlock doesn't ask for the water. He's not an invalid, and Moriarty is not a man he can merely demand things of and have them be done. He can request his phone from John and have it be retrieved with only silent reproach, but that is not a comfort Sherlock shares with this man. Instead he steps to the counter and takes the water bottle, quickly checking the seal. His care over it being tampered with is minimal but he is not so far gone even while under the influence that he is willing to risk further unknown substances in his bloodstream.

Cracking the cap open, he darts a glance at Moriarty and then tips the water bottle back, drinking from it and silently marveling at the slide of water down his throat. It's a pleasant sensation, sensitive, _more_ thanks to the drugs. His next blink is slower and Sherlock steps over to one of the chairs in the kitchen, pulling it out to take a seat. If Moriarty is relaxed enough to be undoing his tie, Sherlock feels free in his decision to sit. He closes his eyes

The abrupt question does come as a sudden surprise. Frowning, half-turning his head in Moriarty's direction without opening his eyes, Sherlock's brow furrows. He doesn't own a dog. He hasn't since Redbeard, as a child. Why would he--

Oh.

"Crude," Sherlock says dismissively as warmth settles through him. "John isn't my dog, and no. But you already knew that, so why ask?"

* * *

Yes, Sherlock, check that seal! Be a little paranoid, be distrusting, expect the worse, look for a trap and find none because the trap is all around you! Every second that Sherlock spends with Moriarty furthers the criminal's own game. It's a long game and while Moriarty isn't well known for patience, when it comes down to _games_ , he can become rather invested and determined. Thus far Sherlock has proven to be fun so Sherlock deserves some investment and patience. At least two sugars worth.

He lets Sherlock sit. Not that he wants to settle _here_ in the kitchen to converse. The bedroom would be more fun because beds are soft and fun. The livingroom had a nice view too. But okay, fine, here for _now_. Sherlock is his guest. He watches Sherlock close his eyes and Jim wonders if Sherlock secretly has a death wish, a dwindling flame that refuses to die. Closing his eyes in the midst of your nemesis? Ooo la la, risky. Jim likes it. His question has Sherlock considering it... Yes. _John's_ the dog. The pet. Click, click, process. There we go, Sherlock, yes.

Jim Moriarty takes a step closer and pulls off his tie. He lies it on top of their growing layers on the back of the chair. Coat, scarf, suit jacket, tie. Shall any other clothing join the tower?

"Why not ask? Popped in my head, decided to give it a whirl," Jim says. Jim lies. "People ask useless questions _all_ the time. Must have rubbed off on me. Apparently I'm only human after all... How dreadful." He holds back a laugh as he slides in behind Sherlock and his hands come to Sherlock's temple and he lets his fingertips make contact.

"Here's another one, when's the last time someone touched you, hmm?' He rubs along Sherlock's temple in clockwise motions. Around and around~

* * *

It's reckless to close his eyes in front of a man like James Moriarty but Sherlock isn't concerned. Men like them may not be predictable, but everyone has rules. One day Moriarty will attempt to kill him. Of this Sherlock has no doubt. But his death will be a treat. A lovely, delicate treat of the likes one only encounters once in a lifetime. His death will not be quick, will not be from a bullet to the brain, will not be from a blade. Moriarty will draw it out and ruin him, will twist that clever mind of his to its limits when he finally bores of Sherlock because Moriarty finds boredom as genuinely insufferable as Sherlock. He's been given a toy, someone on his level, perhaps someone he sees as above the rest of the societal dregs. He will not merely melt this plastic soldier or unwind the doll's arms because he can. Sherlock is _special_.

So Sherlock is safe, for now. He folds his hands over his lap, long legs stretching out from the smaller kitchen chair as he listens and calculates Moriarty's movement through the room. The thoughts in his head are coming slower, warmer, like sap slowly dripping down a tree. It's a curious sensation, to still have a fair bit of his mental facilities but to not _care_ as much. He feels good, feels warm and heavy and his mind is blessedly, blissfully quieting. Moriarty has cooled the rapid electrons in his mind to buzz slowly and the silence is euphoric. Or... no. It is, but there's more to it than that.

The touch is not expected. Sherlock's eyes snap open in a belated surprise. He hadn't heard Moriarty move past him, so focused on the silence. Fingers press along his temples and Sherlock draws in a low, slower breath in his surprise. The sensation is sensitized, is astonishingly intense, and a prickle of something hot slides through him. Sherlock ponders it for a moment. He's still convinced he will not die tonight, but _this_ is not expected. How wonderful. Though the question combined with the touch very quickly makes another thought settle into Sherlock's mind and he considers their situations before sighing, lowly.

"Boring," he announces. _Sex_ is boring. Moriarty may be human, but to do something as dull as _this?_ "Disappointing. I thought more of you than this." He closes his eyes again, though cannot deny the sensation is still sharp against his temples. He makes no move to stop it. "It's been years, and it was thoroughly disappointing. Sex is boring. _People_ are boring."

* * *

Sherlock is quite right, no bullet to the brain would be finding him. Holmes' demise needed to have finesse and fun! No bang bang or a swish of a knife. Duuuuull! Maybe Moriarty could construct a labyrinth of sorts - a wicked little maze for Sherlock to enter and it could be a competition for him and his mice friends. Yes, John Watson could both be a dog and a mouse, thank you very much. They could all be competing for their lives and of course Sherlock would try to _not_ play by the rules and don a cape, to be the hero until the bitter end. Ooooh, the theatrics! And if Sherlock did manage to reunite and save his bumbling mice fan club, Moriarty would then sequester them away for a battle royale perhaps! _Yes, Mrs. Hudson and dear Molly Hooper, you heard right. You fight to the death, now take up that chainsaw and let's see who will be queen bitch--_

Sherlock's eyes may be closed, but Jim can tell that he's listening and taking inventory of the surroundings. It wouldn't be fun if they were stoned out of their minds, no. He wants the mind to still work, just the nattering and buzz to shoo and the speed to calm. When his hands make contact, Jim is glancing down over Sherlock and he sees the signs of surprise and eyelids opening.. _Oh, hi~_

Jim giggles at Sherlock's proclamation of 'boring'. Yes, sex could be very boring - skin slapping against skin, wetness dripping, stupid exaggerated sounds and comments such as 'oh baby.' He has something else in mind. His fingers continue to rub and Sherlock allows it, closing his eyes once more. Jim's fingers slide into Sherlock's curls as he hums thoughtfully.

"Agreed, sex is usually boring and people are _most definitely_ boring," he replies lightly and then his fingers curl, suddenly rough and tugging on dark hair. "But I'm not just anyone, am I?" Grip still strong, Jim leans down to whisper into the seated man's ear.

"Was it confusing for you, Sherlock? Fumbling hands and trying to read cues from a judgemental partner, hmm? I think you'd prefer someone to _take_ _you_ , _take control_ and have you helpless to the sensations. I could, you know. Aren't you a wee bit curious what it could feel like? Another rush of sorts. No romance, no need to talk and worry about saying or doing the wrong things."

* * *

Jim Moriarty, disappointingly a slave to his own drives the way most of the human race seems to be. Sherlock's expression settles despite the flare of heat still curling tantalizingly within him. It feels wonderful, like a pointed slowing of his limbs but not his mind. His thoughts are still accessible, but the noise is quieter, like the rush from nicotine patches and the excitement of a good case to occupy the screaming in his mind. But none of that changes Moriarty's fingers upon his temples, nor how delighted he sounds at Sherlock's dismissal. It's a curiously unexpected reaction which has quickly become par for the course with this man, who is unpredictable and all the more thrilling for it.

The slide of fingers into his hair feels like _more_ , sending a tingle of pleasant sensation through his skin and his spine. Sensory nerves, then. Whatever this concoction is, it targets sensory nerves but not automatic. There's no trouble with breathing, no reminding himself to swallow, no stomach upset. Not even his central nervous system seems engaged barring the pleasant weight in his limbs, so this mixture is to increase sensitivity. It's working, and then suddenly it's working a little _too_ well. Impassiveness fluctuates under the sudden yank of fingers in his hair and Sherlock's expression creases in a slightly exaggerated pain response. Sensitivity is not limited to pleasure, then.

He leans back, his hands finding the armrests of the chair, and a rougher grunt escapes him. The sensation is not unpleasant, merely _more_ , and he finds himself caught, unable to help but listen to what is undoubtedly a proposition. When Moriarty speaks, his voice is much closer and another prickle of sensation creeps through his skin. Sherlock is not exempt from arousal; he just rarely finds it worth the time to touch himself. Yet the familiar tightness does gather and he notes it almost clinically, silently appalled by his own reaction, but finding himself curious. Moriarty does raise a fine point. He's not just anyone. He's _brilliant_ , and there would be no awkward fumbling, no misunderstandings, no disappointment. They would both know what this is. One day, perhaps not too far from now, Moriarty will try to kill him. Until that day, maybe this is a viable option.

Sherlock's lips twist in thought and disbelief. "And you believe _you_ could provide a satisfactory experience? 'Dear Jim, please make it good for me?'" There's a measure of amusement in his voice, a clear disbelief that this could be good. Yet there's still a small niggling of curiosity. Sherlock considers.

"I suppose we'll see."

* * *

Oh, there will always be resistance from a man like Sherlock Holmes who is guarded and wary of anything to do with social interactions. A push to his pull, or is Sherlock pushing and he's pulling? Doesn't matter. They can take turns. Jim doesn't mind if he must coax and use honeyed words to win over the dismissive detective. A little fight is always nice. Compliance and eagerness could easily become humdrum. Jim's strangled an overly docile lover before. He's also bashed one in the head. Oopsy daisy. He's less violent while under the effects of Jollity at least.

As he has a tolerance, just one Jollity takes off the edge for Jim. Sherlock, however, is likely on cloud 9 minus the nonsensical romance shite. Jim knows each tactile sensation Will have a layer of added sensory input, the pleasure feels nicer, and the pain stings harder. Even so, his grip doesn't loosen until Sherlock answers him. Yes, there's sarcasm and disbelief, but there's also not a 'no.' There's an ' _I suppose we'll see'_ because Sherlock is curious at his bold claim.

"How about we make it more interesting and have a bet. Very manly. Very fun," Jim whispers as his fingernails begin to scratch against Sherlock's scalp. _Scritchyscratch, Sherlock the cat~ The cat can wear his funny little hat and--_

Focus. Manly, fun bet. Riiiiight. Jim continues, "If, by by the end of the night, you are _not_ satisfied, I'll answer any question you pose to me. One hundred percent honesty. Buuuuut if I do 'make it good for you' you come here every Friday evening if our schedules permit."

* * *

The scratch of nails over his scalp sends a confusing sensation through him. On one hand, it's sharp and biting, each scrape like the press of a knife, too shallow to draw red under its sharp line but still splitting skin to sting later. On the other, sparks of sensation race through his spine like a fine thread. The flush and heaviness of the drugs weighing him down and the more pleasurable sensation stitches into his skin like an itch he can't quite hope to scratch. It's enough to make him shift, to make his jaw clench for a moment in discomfort beyond the tug to his hair. Sherlock could escape, could whirl and attack and reach for his gun, but he doesn't. Instead he simply calculates the force of pressure Moriarty's hands can apparently inflict. He's surprised by it. For a slight man, Moriarty is stronger than he appears.

Physical strength is not what is threatening, though. It's his intelligence. A snap of his fingers and fifteen red dots hovering, a man commanding a small army of the morally corrupt deadshots the army has seen fit to get rid of. Loyalty is as dangerous as physical strength. Perhaps more so. Sherlock isn't about to make that mistake.

His attention is finally piqued at the mention of a _bet_. Betting is for children and those who cannot calculate odds, but between men like them, there could be quite the difference. Sherlock goes silent and through the pulse of something pleasurable distracting him through his skin, he listens to the terms set out curiously. If he's not satisfied by midnight, Moriarty answers a question. Oh, he could be lying; honor is not Moriarty's strong suit, but the mere _chance_ at having a question answered is too enticing to pass up. Moriarty's terms if he wins are hardly difficult. It _sounds_ too good to be true. Either he gets to ask the world's only consulting criminal a question of his choosing or he is both high and satisfied at the end of the evening with the promise of more in the future?

"What's in it for you?" Sherlock queries, voice only slightly strained. "I hardly see a downside regardless of the outcome for me. You're not that selfless. How long do you expect this to go on if I find myself satisfied? A month? Two? Longer? Vague terms... you know better than that.”

* * *

Some like it rough and some like it rougher. What does Sherlock like? Is he a deviant in bed? Would he like to be spanked like a bad little boy? Would he enjoy biting and being bruised? Choked? Slapped? Or would he need a widdle cuddle during their shag? Jim doesn't think so. The idea of cuddling is likely considered abhorrent to Sherlock. Limbs locking around each other, shared body warmth, the perfect time to whisper about dreams and _feelings_ \- or at least that's what Moriarty assumes transpires during such an event.

A bet is another game, so Sherlock bites at the wiggling bait. Yes, who's a hungry fish, who's a hungry fishy fish? (You are. Sherlock's a hungry fish.) Jim isn't concerned about such a paltry thing like _losing_. If he does fail at his task, it could be interesting to see which question Sherlock ultimately went with. One question, one real answer, for Jim plans on being honest _if_ the situation actually comes to be. He doesn't think the night will end in such a way though.

He's still crouched, mouth by Sherlock's ear, fingernails scritchyscratching against Sherlock's scalp. When the man naturally inquires for specifics, Jim laughs softly and tugs playfully on dark brown curls.

"No, I'm not that selfless, am I? But when I inevitably kill you, I'd like the knowledge that I fucked the great Sherlock Holmes first. Call me sentimental, but it just adds something, you know?" He straightens up and hmms before adding on, "And I think a month shall suffice."

* * *

The heaviness and warmth to his limbs is like a rush of alcohol on an empty stomach, only warmer. Sherlock basks in the sensation, secure in the knowledge that tonight will not be the night he dies. Moriarty is hardly about to toss him from the rooftop. Not at night. No crowd, no spectacle, no _ruin_. For all his intelligence, James Moriarty is also a diva, prone to theatrics and awe. A quiet, nondescript death would not suffice. So Sherlock allows himself to enjoy the sensations, the irritating-pleasurable scratch of nails over his scalp that seems paltry compared to the tug from before. Varying sensation, calculating responses, even in this Moriarty enjoys his little games.

If he insists on sex (Sherlock can hardly call it _intimacy_ for their texts have held a greater level of intimacy than allowing vessels to fit together for a time) then for the parameters of the bet to be more even, he shouldn't hide his reactions. It's tempting, curious, making him wonder how Moriarty would react to a _non_ -reaction, but Sherlock shoves the thought aside. He's curious, and frankly, the rush of sensation from the drugs alone is enough to loosen his tongue, forcing a soft groan from his throat when fingers again tug at his hair.

The reasoning - though perhaps morbid - finally makes sense. Sherlock hums a small, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat.

"Pride. Useless, though fitting for you." Bragging rights, defamation, Sherlock wonders idly if there are cameras in the hotel room. Sloppy and unimaginative to use sex as blackmail, but he can't quite claim it wouldn't suit a man like Moriarty. "Very well, then. A month. Every Friday evening, schedules permitting, _if_ I leave satisfied. One final addition," he adds, and finally opens his eyes so that he can glance sidelong at Moriarty. He's very close, and it's mildly thrilling. Sherlock finds he's enjoying this unpredictability.

"If you're unimaginative enough to film any of this, do us both a favor and ensure my brother doesn't see it. He'll whinge until he's red, and it'll hardly be satisfying."

* * *

Moriarty basks in the bliss and warmth flowing through him. Neurotransmitters firing more frequently, it's a chemically induced rush of pleasure, but one that he can manage and thrive during. He never wants to be so incredibly smashed that he can't walk or think or speak. There's things to do, people to play with, lives to ruin. Speaking of ruin, yes, he plans on ruining Sherlock's life. Why would the consulting detective be spared? At some point Sherlock will cease to be amusing and at that juncture, Moriarty will fry that fish and gobble him up, a lip smacking delicious meal. But for now Jim near bounces as Sherlock considers the terms of the arrangement.

He's never made such an arrangement before. It honestly hadn't even been his intention at inviting Sherlock. Jim doesn't regard sex very highly, but it could be fun and relieve stress at times. Humans were be such primitive things, bumping and grinding and squirting fluids left and right. But the rush of orgasm is nice in its own right, but of course it's better _on_ Jollity. Many things were better while high, but tolerance could be a bitch so Jim knew better than to overindulge lest he become too desensitized to the effects.

When Sherlock agrees, Jim's hands leave the seated man's hair and give a small clap of victory. The mention of Mycroft Holmes is amusing as is the idea that Jim would _record_ their dalliance. While it's not below him, he would hardly record their _first_ _time_ together. First times are sacred! If anything it would be later on when they've learned each other and the fucking was worthy of being shown off.

"Okay, fine, no scandalous sex tapes sent to your dear brother," Jim parrots back. "Up and 'em, younger Holmes." Moriarty's hands bury themselves back in Sherlock's hair and yank, prompting him to stand. "I'm not going to deflower you here in the kitchen."


	2. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty isn't watching him the way a lover would. He's watching him because he _can_. Because there's an openness to Sherlock's expression he can't contain right now, and it's as much an invasion of privacy as it is absolutely brilliant. It's manipulative and opportunistic and Sherlock can admire something being done to him that he so often does to others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the smut has started/arrived! (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑
> 
> Moriarty written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Sherlock written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

_‘I'm not going to deflower you here in the kitchen.'_

The clap so close to his ear is enough to make Sherlock flinch, the reverberating sound much louder on Moriarty's prized concoction. It's apparent Moriarty is pleased but Sherlock finds he cares little whether or not he's pleasing. The bet is interesting, Moriarty is interesting, and this odd high is quite curious indeed. He's just tracing it through his system - cataloging what clothing feels like, what shoes feel like, what the sensation of the chair feels like - when hands are suddenly in his hair and yanking, and Sherlock's expression pinches in an acute displeasure that is hard to hide as anything but pain. His hands tighten on the seat of the chair for a moment but it doesn't take him long to understand what is expected of him.

He rises to his feet and shivers oddly at the slide of his own crisp dress shirt over his back and shoulders as he stands. The downside of standing is that he has a good four inches of height on Moriarty, and it makes it difficult to maintain the grip in his hair. He pulls free, and a soft sound - almost a scoff - escapes him at the word _deflower._ Sherlock begins to mutter something about social constructs and labels and _boring people_ before he decides the topic is so worthless that it's not even worth finishing his complaint. Instead he latches on to what is underlying. No kitchen. 

"No, the kitchen is hardly grandiose enough for you. The balcony, perhaps," Sherlock muses, thoughtful and warm as his thoughts drift lazily by instead of slamming him unpleasantly. "No. If you win this wager and this happens again, you'll do that another time. Show off for your men. Out of curiosity, how many snipers are outside?"

It's fascinating that his coordination hasn't been compromised. Sherlock idly considers this as he turns and looks out at the room and-- oh. Of course. He doesn't wait for instruction; he merely walks out of the kitchen and towards the door undoubtedly leading to the bedroom. Given the layout of the rest of the area - kitchen connected to a sitting room with three cream-colored couches - the flow seems to indicate that the door to the left is the bedroom. Sherlock can only assume the one on the right is a bathroom, or perhaps a study. Study makes more sense. The bathroom will likely be connected as an en suite. 

Sure enough, the door he'd chosen is correct. Sherlock reaches up to the collar of his shirt and he's only undone a single button before he remembers that this hadn't been _his_ idea. He turns back to Moriarty and lifts an eyebrow. "Shall I, or would you rather?"

* * *

Jim's lacking a few inches to keep his grip in Sherlock's hair so it's abandoned as the 'younger Holmes' rises. He's perfectly content with his height, thank you very much. Sherlock is the bean pole. Jim may be a wee bit under the average height, but that often had people underestimating him (which worked in his favor). He came in a compact package, big whoop! He likes his 'packaging' just fine. Let him be underestimated. Jim Moriarty can squeeze into tight spaces and still manage to be intimidating.

Sherlock starts to grumble and Jim watches him, head cocked a little to the side, but not bothered in the least. Sherlock can mumble and bellyache all he wants, but he's agreed to this and Jim knows he's going to see it through. _Don't disappoint daddy, now. Daddy would hate to send you to your room..._ But they would be going to the bedroom anyway as the kitchen is ruled off the list. Fine, fine. At the mention of 'showing off' for his men Jim rolls his eyes. He's not interested in showing off for the hired help.

"One, two, three, seven? Oh, I don't exactly know," Jim answers idly. He's not concerned with the snipers across from the hotel. They're boring. Grunts with guns. What's interesting is that Sherlock decides to simply wander his way over to the room. Jim is fine following, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and strolls behind Sherlock. The right door is chosen and they enter the room. It, too, has large windows. Jim doesn't bother with the lights. He has no need to see every little detail of Sherlock. Gross. 

When asked about the undressing business, Jim shrugs and takes his hands out of his pockets. "It looks like you're managing just fine," he replies. See? Jim Moriarty is not always a control freak. They can both disrobe on their own. It would save time anyway. Jim does just that, striding further into the room as he unbuttons his own dress shirt. 

"Have you ever been penetrated before Sherlock? A finger, tongue, toy, prick -- anything been up there?" Seems like an appropriate time to ask. "Sorry to be so forward -- oh nevermind, I'm not. Best to know now than later." He shrugs off his shirt and folds it over the reclining chair. Jim's pulling off his belt as he turns to face Sherlock.

* * *

The information given is hardly enough to paint a picture but Sherlock finds he doesn't care nearly as much as he should. The drug, more than likely. He has vague thoughts and concerns regarding the snipers on the roof, but Moriarty is hardly the type to allow them to shoot during sex. Sherlock eyes the large bay windows in the bedroom curiously and glances out to the buildings he can see. He's idly caught by curiosity regarding where the snipers might be making their nest and a vague thought does cross his mind of texting Mycroft possible locations, but as soon as he considers it, the idea dies. If Moriarty were going to use them to kill tonight, he'd have done so by now. They're a security detail. The realization makes him smile.

Sherlock hums a soft note of interest when Moriarty declines to undress him, though he prefers it this way. "Interesting," Sherlock notes, though doesn't extrapolate. Instead he works at the buttons on his shirt and cuffs, and it doesn't take him long to get his shirt splaying open. It's nothing he hasn't done a thousand times over, but this time feels different. Sherlock can still feel the sore-not-sore tingle to his scalp and every whisper of fabric over his skin feels hyper-sensitive. Sherlock shivers slightly as he reaches up to slide the shirt off, fighting the urge to squirm at the sensitivity left behind. The chill of the air lasts all of a few moments before heat rushes in to greet it, sliding through Sherlock's skin. Fascinating.

He's just folding his shirt when the rather... intrusive question comes. Sherlock stills to consider both the question and whether or not it's appropriate, then dismisses the concern. Crude as it might be, there _is_ reason for it. Preparation, experience, what to expect. Sherlock _understands_ sex, he just doesn't understand human nature enough to have the patience to enjoy it.

"Not really." Sherlock turns then to face Moriarty and after a moment of consideration, he drapes his shirt over the back of a smaller chair closer to the bed, away from the windows. His own hands find and undo his belt. "A finger or two in my youth, years ago. Too much hassle for something already tedious. I assume you've already picked up everything you'll need for this," Sherlock adds, giving Moriarty a quick once-over in mild surprise. While not muscular, he is surprisingly toned for a man who gets his hands dirty so infrequently. 

* * *

Jim's not as entranced with the sensations of the air on bare skin or fabric rustling against him. He feels good, yes, better than good, but he'd need to take two or three little smiley faces to be more buggered. This isn't about _him._ Not tonight, anyway, not this time. He needs to remain a few steps ahead of Sherlock, anyway. This is about Sherlock Holmes, his first time on the drug and the virgin's first time with sex. Jim has no doubt that Sherlock's experimented a little - too curious not to have - but partnered sex is a different game, a game that's far too much of a hassle for a man like Sherlock.

However, Jim Moriarty isn't just _anyone.._. Deflowering the virgin detective in the penthouse suite of the Shangri-La, it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It shall be a lovely time. When he'd sent the invitation, Jim hadn't precisely been planning this all out. It had been a possibility. They also could have got stoned, looked outside the window and talked about riddles. Jim had other options lined up for Sherlock as well. He could have went with one of those, but he'll save them for another time. 

At the mention of supplies, Jim pulls off his belt and begins coiling it in his hands. He considers Sherlock's now bare chest. Sherlock is pale and lean. A right beanpole, a bit gangly but not bad looking. He'd like to mark him up, give 'em a good belting across the buttocks as it were, but sadism will have to take a backseat for now. 

"Of course, of course, I have everything that we need," he says dismissively and places the belt on the desk. No mean daddy tonight.

He steps over to Sherlock. They both have to remove their trousers and pants now. Jim undoes his button and sing-songs, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." The drag of the zipper seems loud in the room. He's not hard, but he doesn't care about pointed pricks. 

"Not that genitals are attractive by any means." He gives a shrug as he shimmies tailored trousers down his legs and steps out of them.

* * *

There's an odd look in Moriarty's eye when Sherlock looks over at him. He watches silently as Moriarty gathers his belt in his hands, looping it through his hands a few times until it pulls taut. At first he doesn't register what has drawn Moriarty's focus so obviously but after catching a glance at his chest, the dots are quick to connect. Ah. Of course. It should come as little to no surprise that Moriarty is a sadist, and perhaps he would take some pleasure in taking his belt to Sherlock's skin. Curiously he tilts his head, thinking and thoughtful long after the belt is delicately placed aside. 

The song and dance as Moriarty steps over is enough to earn him a slight flick of Sherlock's eyes. It's not even pronounced enough to be considered a roll of his eyes, just enough to express a brief exasperation that quickly fades. 

"Naturally," is all Sherlock says as his hands drop to his own belt. Nudity has never bothered him, though often times his brother had expressed his own exasperation over Sherlock's lack of care. The sensitive nature of other people is not _his_ concern. 

He undoes his belt quickly and sets it aside, and while he does glance at Moriarty as his trousers come off, he only notes that his legs look stronger than Sherlock would have expected. Very little desk work, or Moriarty is in the habit of pacing. Naked bodies are a veritable tome of personal information so cruelly hidden away. Sherlock considers this as he turns his attention to his own trousers and undoes them. His zipper is significantly softer-sounding from months of use and sleeping on it, and he merely lets the trousers fall to the floor. He's not hard either, but there _is_ a telling warmth all through his skin, stoking the fire into a spark. 

"Do you enjoy the idea of leaving marks behind on all of your sexual partners, or does the thought of hitting me with your belt appeal because it's _me?_ " He asks suddenly, as he rarely holds questions in for long. Sherlock glances at him curiously. "In the unlikely event this continues, I'm not adverse to the idea."

* * *

Discarded in the kitchen is Sherlock's coat and scarf as well as Jim's suit jacket and tie. What's of more importance is that both the gun and both of their mobiles have been left behind as well. Upon placing his items of clothing on top of Sherlock's, Jim had spied out the shape of the two objects in Sherlock's jacket pocket. Not that it would have taken much deducing - Sherlock's trousers were far too tight to fit much in the pockets. Either way, it's a good thing as they shan't be disturbed by little pieces of technology now. Article after article removed and they're closer to exposing their weak and fragile womb-wear. Nakedness is nothing to fret over, not like the Americans who were appalled by anatomy, but perfectly fine with gratuitous violence. Ridiculous. Seeing dangly bits were surely less scarring than watching limbs get chopped off or bodies riddled with bullets.

Only clad in dark dress socks and his pants, Jim Moriarty begins working a sock off when Sherlock's lovely comment comes. _Bit of a masochistic leaning, hmm?_ How delightful, but not necessarily surprising. This new revelation has heat pooling lower for Jim, arousal peaking at the possibility of getting to play around in such a way. He rips his other sock off but leaves them on the floor, not caring about folding them.

"Noooo, not all my partners," Jim answers as he straightens up and considers Sherlock. His own hands come to the band of his pants. "But I will keep that in mind," he drawls out as he slips down the last remaining article of clothing and steps out of them. "Do hurry up now, Sherlock." Moriarty turns around and strolls to the bedside table. He rummages through a drawer and pulls out the 'necessary' supplies. 

"On your back when you're ready."

* * *

Moriarty enjoys this because it's him, then. It's an answer of omission but no less telling and Sherlock curiously files it away, though it's not at all surprising. He's not the only man who gets bored, who requires distraction in the face of a sea of ordinary people with ordinary problems. Given that his life has been rife with those people in an effort to keep his boredom at bay, Sherlock can't say a damn thing. Given the opportunity to beat Jim Moriarty, he'd take it simply because it would be new, would be interesting. Sherlock observes the slight increase to the flush in Moriarty's skin, though it's nigh invisible in the low light of the room. He likes the idea, sexually. Interesting. Sexual sadist, then, but likely under proper circumstances.

The buzzing in Sherlock's head is still blissfully silent, leaving his thoughts clear and focused on Moriarty as he undresses the rest of the way. Sherlock looks only because it's required and finds himself pleased to note that Moriarty isn't needlessly hard simply at the concept of _more_. It's settling and Sherlock watches him walk to the bedside table for condoms and lubricant. It's enough to know that he has them and - at the final prompting - Sherlock merely tips his head in acquiescence and toes off his socks without fanfare. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and slips them off. There's no pomp and circumstance, no skill, he's merely naked and comfortable in his own skin, though the fabric no longer being on his skin does feel oddly pleasant. He's not hard, but there is the beginning of something, undoubtedly from the sensitivity of the drugs. 

He doesn't wait for further prompting before following Moriarty's instructions. Sherlock shifts and sits on the bed, kicking long legs up onto it before he lays back on the bed, hands clasped idly over the midpoint of his abdomen. This is both blessing and a curse. Blessing because while Moriarty is a master at masking his motivations and body language, remaining unpredictable and confusing so that Sherlock cannot actively predict him. Though it is also a curse, as there is something silken and _clingy_ about the sheets he finds himself laying back on, which in itself is no great issue. The problem is that the pill is making it feel distracting, feel good, every time he so much as dares to shift. _Intentional_ , he thinks as he darts a would-be accusing look at Moriarty. 

"Out of fairness to our little wager, I find false platitudes unquestionably dull. Light sensation is uncomfortable; if I'm to feel something, I prefer it to make itself known. And _do_ try to resist the urge to slobber all over me. If I wanted that, I'd buy a dog. What are you expecting from me in terms of participation?"

* * *

Safe sex is safe. They must be safe, yes. Proper adults. Get the condoms out and protect the prick! Safety first! Sherlock may not be a hussy, but he _is_ an IV drug user and Jim Moriarty is aware of the dangers of dirty needles. He'd like to think Sherlock Holmes was smart enough to use proper sterilization techniques, but one could never be too careful. He doesn't want to catch anything, thank you. Jim takes out a strip of condoms, drops it next to the bottle of lubricant and flicks off the cap - everything ready for when it's needed.

Jim turns around and watches Sherlock remove his socks. The lack of an erection on Sherlock is understandable. They haven't _done_ anything yet - all talk, but the action is coming. Jim grins when Sherlock obeys and climbs on the king size bed with with no attitude given. But of course, the silence doesn't last and Sherlock has to give a comment - not that it bothers Jim because apparently communication is essential in these sorts of things and Sherlock is offering up personal preferences - these are useful tidbits of information..No platitudes, nothing overly soft - that's fine with Jim. _Slobbering_? Disgraceful. He would never-- Participation? 

"You can lie there like a dead fish if you'd like," Jim says easily as he gets on the bed. He doesn't need Sherlock to put on a show or even _do_ anything. Jim is fairly certain he will pull out reactions in time. He has nimble fingers after all. 

"Now, close your eyes, Sherlock. It will be more of a surprise that way... Oh, arms by your side like a good boy too." Jim wants access to all of Sherlock's torso so the arms had to move. _Shoo_. On his knees, Jim crawls closer but is still in arms reach of the end table. He lets his nails scratch down Sherlock's collarbone. 

"You're a boney one aren't you?" It's a rhetorical question. Jim bends over and promptly nips his greeting to Sherlock's clavicle.

* * *

A quick glance is all it takes to note the condoms and the lubricant. Taken with him, no doubt. From a distance, there's enough missing from the bottle to tell Sherlock that it belongs to Moriarty and he finds himself wondering if this had been the plan all along. Likely one of many. Had it been _him_ , he'd have planned for a number of eventualities, so he can't fault Moriarty the same. Seeing that he has them, Sherlock's concern vanishes, as does most of his interest in anything that isn't the sheets under him. They keep clinging to his skin, softer and silken in a way that makes him want to strip the comforter off the bed simply to be less distracting. He doesn't _do_ distraction well when he's attempting to focus on something else, and unfortunately the pills make distraction very simple.

So the knowledge that his participation begins and ends at 'be present' is settling. Sherlock watches out of the corner of one eye as Moriarty climbs onto the bed. He traces the line of his shoulders - thinner but still toned; he does something, some sort of sport or exercise - and follows them down corded arms. Again, evidence of some strength. Sherlock calculates that it would likely be very simple to send Moriarty tumbling to the floor with a well-aimed hit or kick, but he doesn't do anything. He's curious, and this affords him a chance to _learn_. The plan is... admittedly somewhat stalled by the instruction to close his eyes but after only a moment of uncertainty, Sherlock decides he can understand the desire.

He sighs his silent exasperation and does as told, closing his eyes. Then he unclasps his fingers and moves his arms to lay at his sides. The _scratch_ is the first thing he notices that he actually cares for. It's sudden, unpredictable, and Sherlock makes a small sound, muscles tensing and twitching at the burn. At first he's confused, but he quickly remembers - right. Drugged. 

"Didn't you say something about not needing to _talk?_ " Sherlock complains, tone slightly gruff. He hears shifting and feel the press of teeth to his skin but that sensation is pleasantly sharp. It's not bad, but it's certainly nothing he's not experienced before. "It seems to me that you've done little else; do try to keep nattering to a minimum. Weren't you supposed to be satisfying me?”

* * *

Daddy likes it when Sherlock is a good boy - eyes slipping shut and hands leaving his abdomen to rest at his sides. A pale spread of flesh is before Moriarty, the possibilities endless. A canvas waiting for his vision. He wants to scratch and bite, maybe use something sharp like a razor blade and create some ooey gooey red art. It could be like finger-painting. He could make an art project out of Sherlock and you know, hang it up on the refrigerator afterward. Or frame it properly. One slice down his trapezius, two cuts across his infraspinatus muscle, then threefourfive nice and low on Sherlock's obliques. Blood would blossom and Jim would dip his fingertips--

_'...do try to keep nattering to a minimum. Weren't you supposed to be satisfying me?_

Jim Moriarty rolls his eyes. Uppity demanding virgin... 

"I said _you_ didn't have to talk," he retorts, irritation bleeding into his voice as he lifts his head to give an unimpressed look to Sherlock... Who of course cannot see it because his eyes are closed, but that's hardly _important_. 

"And patience is a virtue, or so they say," Jim adds on. Of course he's notorious for having very little patience, but he won't be rushed in this. Jim's head descends once more and he bites harder at the bony ridge of Sherlock's right clavicle. He then sucks with purpose. He could leave a necklace of bruises along these defined collarbones, a punishment for being a skinny fish.

* * *

Sherlock decides against arguing, though the concept does seem quite pleasant. A double standard, then. He doesn't have to talk, but Moriarty has no intention of shutting up. He weighs both sides of the equation idly and decides that ultimately Moriarty's mouth will be a disadvantage to him. Sherlock cannot stand it when John natters on about nothing, and lovely as Mrs. Hudson is, he's left her talking to thin air on more than one occasion simply to find some peace in his own head (often by way of nicotine). If the goal is to make him enjoy this, to satisfy him, ceaseless talking will only be a detriment. If Moriarty wishes to sabotage his own plans, that is on him. Sherlock's lips merely thin in displeasure and he gives a dismissive grunt but otherwise doesn't argue. _He_ doesn't have to talk, after all.

He wonders just what the point of this is. The bet is to satisfy him, to earn his company for at least the next three weeks, likely four. Though the drug does slow his thoughts, making them feel stickier in his mind, they are no less sharp. He merely meanders to his conclusions instead of immediately pinning them in place. Is the benefit of this exchange simply bragging rights? The knowledge that Moriarty has _had_ him in this physical, boring sense? Perhaps. It's hardly logical, but then, so little of their game has been. Moriarty, for all his intelligence, is a sentimentalist. Carl Powers - practically gift-wrapped, the equivalent of a fruit basket - followed by hints and clues. Bad for business, yet willingly given for a _chance_ to meet him face to face. 

The sudden bite to Sherlock's clavicle has a hot-sharp-cold pain arcing through him. He tenses and a hand finds Moriarty's shoulder before he's given it permission to. He's begun to push - mind sluggishly pouring over nerve clusters and the scalenes and numerous muscle groups affected - when he realizes the bite is not intended to wound. It merely feels that way because of the sensitivity of his skin. Sherlock stops, considering, a crease to his brow as his breathing roughens, but the longer Moriarty bites - and sucks - the more it makes sense. Sentimentalist. Marking. _Oh_. 

"I didn't take you for a possessive man," he says, breaking his own silence as his hand tightens on Moriarty's shoulder. Pain bleeds lower, tensing his muscles and shifting to something hotter along the way, something somewhat enticing. "Is that what this is? Leaving your mark?"

* * *

Jim likes biting and sucking and seeing his efforts pay off. Maybe he'll give the detective a few pinches too just to keep him guessing. Jim may not be able to finger paint tonight, but he will decorate Sherlock Holmes up and leave his mark. A claim that he's touched and known Sherlock _intimately_. Sherlock has lovely unmarred skin just waiting for bruises to bloom like springtime flowers. Maybe John will be allergic to them. John Watson seems like the type to have allergies. Anyway, Moriarty will make a lovely picture out of Sherlock. And then take a picture.

A hand grasps his shoulder and begins to push as if trying to get him to stop, but Jim doesn't relent in his suction on Sherlock's collarbone. A moment later, Sherlock seems to come to the conclusion that this bite-suck action _isn't_ actually a threat and merely tenses underneath him. Jim makes a happy little hum of approval, licking at the reddened skin before sucking at it again. He thinks of himself like the hypostomus plecostomus, sucking algae off of aquariums, but those suckermouth catfish were rather ugly and isn't Sherlock supposed to be the fish? Ohhhhh, well.

He does pull off after Sherlock deigns to remark on him being a possessive man. "I am, and I'm not," Jim replies lightly, hardly affronted by the accusation. "Depends on the possession. Some things are hardly worth staking a claim on. You, however... _You_ have potential." 

While talking, Jim reaches behind him to grab the bottle of lubricant. He does nothing with it as he opens his mouth and lets the tip of his tongue trace down Sherlock's sternum. Jim then lifts off to suck at Sherlock's nipple.

* * *

In retrospect it makes sense. Moriarty is a sentimentalist in his own way. He could claim otherwise, but that is the single thing Sherlock knows about him for _sure_. Past the mind games and random spikes of acted or true insanity is a man who kept Carl Powers' trainers in pristine condition for decades, to the point that mud had still looked fresh upon its sides. Tended and cared for like a garden, evidence sealed for an unforseen future, he'd kept them merely because he could and he'd found a use for them far later down the road. Not even Moriarty had been intelligent enough to predict Sherlock being a thorn in his side decades down the road. 

So that his focus seems to be on making marks comes as no real surprise once Sherlock thinks about it. Moriarty doesn't stop and Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, instead allowing himself to drift on the sensation of heightened nerve responses. It's almost thrilling because he has no way of knowing how deep the mark will actually be until he sees it. His sensors are off, his skin sensitive, his hearing muted, his reactions a little slower. Everything is off, a particular challenge, and looking at it like that turns an otherwise boring moment into a rather interesting one. The answer - that Moriarty is possessive only with certain things - is enough to draw a thoughtful hum from Sherlock's throat. 

"Should I be flattered, then?" He asks idly. Normal people might be. He's uncertain if he is. "I should think I've more than proven worth beyond merely _potential_ by now."

Any irritation in the words only flares for a few moments, however. Sherlock does consider saying more, but he finds himself distracted by the heat that trails down over his sternum and then suddenly latches around a nipple. He's not particularly sensitive in certain places; he's never enjoyed the attention before, but with the drugs in his system, it's markedly different. Sherlock doesn't intend to grunt, doesn't expect the first real spark of something hot twisting lower. While he's been aroused by stray thoughts in the past and direct stimulation has always afforded a predictable, boring pleasure, this is something new. It's unintentional on his part, involuntary, and that's interesting. Even he pays closer attention to what it is that feels good, curious at the tongue-lips-teeth sensation almost like it's some sort of combination lock. Interesting indeed.

* * *

Jim Moriarty _does_ care - at least about a few things anyway. He may not have ever felt the apparent normal familial or romantic love that makes the world go around or whatever, but he loves a well tailored suit. He appreciates the meticulous effort that goes into tailoring something _specifically_ for him and to his tastes. He likes the exactness of the entire procedure, the numerous measurements taken, the mixing and matching of fabrics and patterns to create an ensemble. In work and business he dresses smartly and somewhat understated - nothing flashy - but Jim Moriarty has plenty of suits that fit his dashing personality. Perhaps next time they bump into each other Jim will dress to impress (so to speak). 

(He remembers once wearing hand-me-downs as a child. Another boy in his level had pointed and laughed at his jumper as the sleeves were too long for six-year-old James. With a blank face, James Moriarty promptly made that behavior cease. It was this act of aggression - breaking another classmate's finger - that started the hopeless quest of his parents dragging him to get help. 'Inappropriate handling of anger...' Some things never change, but at least he hadn't had to wear any more hand-me-downs after that.)

He also loves puzzles, challenges and surprises, but all three are much too rare of an occurrence. In most of his business dealings, he's careful and controlling. Jim Moriarty can be changeable, yes, he's impulsive and lives for a dash of whimsy here and there, but it's only in select affairs that he allows himself to muck around. Missile plans, psshh, didn't need those, but he's not insane, thank you very much. He's not going to let his business go to shambles just for a laugh. He'll play with Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock cannot be allowed to go on as he is and they both know it. Their story won't have a happy ending, at least not for the hero.

But now he has the hero between his sheets - or at least on top of them as Sherlock had opted for such a thing. This chapter wouldn't be for the children. Jim smirks at Sherlock's assertion that he's passed the 'potential' mark. It's probably true~ He doesn't reply because such a cute nipple deserves to be bitten until it peaks into a little mountain. He's both creator and destroyer, didn't you know? He takes his art very seriously. Jim takes the soft nub between his teeth and pinches it slightly while tonguing at the tip. Sherlock's been more responsive to the attention spent to his nipple so Jim feels good about making this headway. 

* * *

There are any number of things that Moriarty could be doing beyond Sherlock's closed eyes but he's not concerned. He can still hear, and outside of vague shuffling (readjusting) and grabbing for something (lubrication, likely) Moriarty has been still. Sherlock's been making a game out of tracking Moriarty's hands, feeling them dip the bed on either side of him. He might be without his sight but that doesn't make him blind, though it doesn't halve the anticipation of when a touch is going to come. Sherlock can tell _that_ Moriarty is moving, but not how close he is to touching. It's just enough of a distraction to draw his attention, though admittedly it has nothing on this sudden fixation.

Moriarty's teeth are sharp enough to bite _hard_ and do real damage, but he doesn't. Instead Sherlock feels the pressure - lighter, controlled, aimed to please and not hurt. Of all the violent sensations that Moriarty is capable of, that he's opted for something gentle is the most unsettling. Sherlock frowns. It's not a _light_ sensation, but it is odd. The grip of teeth is just tight enough to pinch, but the first flick of what is undoubtedly a tongue adds in something different. He shifts without thinking, his hands uncurling from their casual grip and then re-forming into a fist with a splay of his fingers like a folding fan. He repeats this silently to keep from squirming. He's uncertain if he likes this.

His body seems to. Be it the technique or the drugs (likely the drugs), the attention does feel good. Sherlock can feel referred sensation down his skin, a prickle of feeling that creeps down the side of his obliques and lower, settling warmly, which makes no rational sense. There are no nerves to refer sensation from the nipple outward. Spinal nerves hold their root and supply sensation to the upper and lower pectorals, but the nerves surrounding and running through the nipple itself varies and is limited directly to the fascia beneath. Sherlock's frown deepens. Muscle tension, perhaps? Whatever the reason, he can feel the prickling sensation of something hotter and pleasant settling low and he can feel his pulse beginning to pick up. Arousal, then. Sherlock swallows and finally can't help but almost-squirm, his nipple pebbling and tightening under Moriarty's teeth, somehow becoming _more_ sensitive. 

"I haven't got all evening," he says, somewhat snippishly. "Do you intend to keep this up for much longer?"

* * *

Jim can hear and sense the movement of Sherlock's hands by his sides. The fidgeting only supports the observation that Sherlock's body likes the sensation of a nipple being played with. Such an activity could often be hit or miss from his experience. Some men liked it, some men didn't. Some women liked it, some women didn't. Everyone was different, at least in the sack. Jim himself doesn't care for much nipple play, they're sensitive but it's not an overly arousing sensitivity. Discerning what a partner likes sexually is a task that Jim Moriarty can find enjoyment in if in the right state of mind. The first time with a partner is often trial and error and Jim sometimes makes it to be game of discovery. _Does this feel good? How about here? Harder? Softer? Nails? My tongue instead? On your knees? With a blindfold? Will you cry? Will you scream? Will you scratch me back if I do such and such a thing? Will you be good for Daddy? Are you my good boy? Will you bark like a dog? Will you beg? Will you stop me? Will you force me? --_ Moriarty has quite the list and he's certain he won't even get through half of them tonight. 

He could ask what's going on in Sherlock's mind, but he won't. He's not exactly interested in knowing. Jim's curious, but he's not always nosy. His mouth's busy anyway. Sherlock can have his own internal dialogue for all he cares because he's singularly focused on grating his teeth in such a way to elicit a more noticeable squirm out of his fish. Not so dead after all, hmm? The nipple in his mouth is now a little hard peak and Jim pulls off with a pointed tug.

_'I haven't got all evening... Do you intend to keep this up for much longer?'_

"You're mine until midnight," Jim answers, airy and light. He could get exasperated by Sherlock's impatience, but he's trying to think of him being a poor lost virgin in need of guidance. Moriarty straightens back up and lets his free hand come to the untouched nipple and pinch it hard. "That was the deal. Besides, you can't deny that you're body _is_ responding to me." That said, his hand skims down Sherlock's abdomen, pelvis and then comes to grasp a half-erect penis. "What's this, hmm?" Jim's fingers deftly smooth down foreskin before pumping his hand up rather loosely. 

* * *

The sensation isn't unpleasant, it's merely difficult to properly pin down. The closest Sherlock can liken it to is electricity, though a very low voltage. Teeth clench and nerves send signals of pain shooting down into the surrounding connective tissue, and then a tongue flicks and soothes and a different sensation intermingles. It's remarkably similar to the pain-relief one is gifted after being shocked, so Sherlock hesitantly labels the sensation as 'electric' for later cataloging. Then it shifts again at the tug when Moriarty pulls off, leaving Sherlock drawing in a slightly sharper breath and holding it before he lets it out again. Small shivers of sensation prickle along his skin and he refuses to acknowledge them as anticipation.

He _is_ pleased to know that Moriarty has taken 'Friday' literally. Friday ends at midnight and apparently so does any obligation to remain. Sherlock makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something infinitely more pleased, but it unfortunately takes on a significantly different edge when fingers suddenly find his other nipple and pinch _hard_. He gasps. Instead of immediately pulling away, he almost arches into it, expression pinching in a clear wince. 

"Hardly sportsmanly," he manages after a brief moment, both a slightly breathless reprimand, and proof that he's managed to deduce that Moriarty must play _some_ kind of sport to have properly developed the muscles in his forearms and calves. Tennis perhaps? Golf, maybe.

And then, just like that, it's significantly harder to care about proper development of the soleus and brachioradialis when Moriarty's fingers close over where he is apparently half-hard. Sherlock finally opens his eyes with a slowly-drawn breath, one of mixed, muted pleasure and surprise. There's a furrow to his brow when he looks down and sees the hand wrapped around him; he'd felt the stirring of arousal, but he'd not been aware that he'd started to grow hard. Not until now. There is no masking his surprise, not when most of his focus seems suddenly taken up with keeping his hips still. A hand not his own feels ...remarkably different. Sherlock swallows, throat working visibly, and after a hesitant moment, he closes his eyes again. Still. Calm. 

"Midnight. Yes, yes, I remember," he says, and his voice is mildly breathless. Not bad, considering. "Though if you don't know what _that_ is, perhaps this isn't the activity to be engaging in..."

* * *

At the comment of his apparent lack of sportsmanship, Jim is tempted to scoff and make some sort of catty rhyme, but nothing rhymes with 'sportsmanly' so that's a dead end. Ah, such is life. The English language could be so disappointing too. While he doesn't care about Sherlock's deduction of him being active in his down time (it's true) Jim does care about that lovely gasp from the pinch and how Sherlock moved not away, but toward it as if chasing the sensation. Sherlock does indeed like his nipples being played with. Not even five minutes in and he's already learned something of value. Oh, Jim's good, he's very good.

Moriarty's hand making contact with Sherlock's cock has the prone man surprised and peering down at what's just transpired. Jim watches the delightful expression on Sherlock's face, but their eyes don't meet. Of course it's still a more subtle expression than on most people, but once Sherlock confirms what's happening, he seems to accept it and pull himself back together, closing his eyes. When he speaks, there's only the barest hint of a coiled pleasure within Sherlock. It's rather lovely that he's trying to keep himself in check. _You can try, Sherlock, but you aren't going to win..._

"It was a rhetorical question," Jim says blandly and he shimmies himself down lower on the bed while his hand continues its lazy strokes. He considers their positioning for a moment before adding, "Be a gentleman and spread your legs, will you?" When Sherlock eventually complies with the instruction, Jim is climbing over the nearest leg and settling in between them, the bottle of lubricant still with him. He chooses to settle on his front, letting go of the not quite fully hard erection as his own half-hard prick is now pinned between the bed and his belly. He wiggles experimentally against the fabric and gives a pleased sigh. He drops the lube to the side - it's not needed yet. 

"You have porcelain skin, makes me want to break you," Jim comments more to himself before he nips at Sherlock's inner thigh. Normally he would start with softer touch, but Sherlock had said nothing soft, so that's what he's getting.

* * *

The terms of the bet had indicated satisfaction. Sherlock mulls this over in his mind as a mantra as a deceptively soft hand strokes him, deepening his breathing and making it difficult to remain completely indifferent. The drug has taken full effect, sending warmth curling through him, bleeding out from numerous branches of sensory nerves in order to draw a flush to his skin. A flush indicates vasodilation, which in turn means it has an effect on the blood vessels throughout the body but Sherlock's focus is on the nerves. He's quite certain it's the sensory effects of the sublingual pill that have focused his sensitivity so sharply. It certainly doesn't feel like _this_ in the rare moments he's forced to touch himself, usually a chore in the way eating or sleeping is. 

It does feel like this now, though. Moriarty's hand is loose, delivering the barest sensation, but now that Sherlock is aware he's hard he can feel himself hardening further. Hardness and the subsequent orgasm doesn't dictate satisfaction, though. That is far more difficult to nurture into being and Sherlock takes comfort in that as he's stroked almost lazily. Sensation burns through him pleasantly, but it doesn't eclipse the rest of him. He feels the bed dip and tracks Moriarty as he eases himself down the bed. The request to have him spread his legs draws a soft, dismissive sound from his throat but he does as told. Getting on with it, then. Good.

He feels the bed dip in a more central location - between his legs, then, about time - and Sherlock sighs just once when Moriarty moves his hand away. A part of him - physical, unimportant - wants to chase it, but he knows there will be more in time. The break is appreciated, though he doesn't say as much.

"A fair number of the British population has porcelain or near-porcelain skin. I'm no anomaly, nor am I particularly rare in that regard. If you want to break me, it's for reasons other than my skin," Sherlock scoffs. Then he feels teeth close over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh and the muscle beneath jumps and twitches enough to pull the skin taut. It hurts, drawing a sharper breath out of him, but more than that is merely the shock of it. With Moriarty between his legs and the sound of the bottle of lubrication moving with him, he'd been expecting a lazy preparation, not _more_ exploration. This time he does shift, does squirm, just enough to spread his legs a little more.

"Is all this really necessary? I don't see the point of it."

* * *

While it could potentially be fun to discover a partner's preferences, sex could also be boring and rather a chore. People could surprise him in the most unpleasant of ways, forward men turning out to not be adventurous, women crying after a particular good orgasm. Tedious all around which made a good 'ole fashion wank by oneself the method to go with if one was searching for an orgasm. There's plenty of evidence that orgasms are good for the body, and Jim likes his body. Must keep his temple in tip top shape.

Whether it's fleshy folds or a silky sausage Moriarty doesn't really care for anyone's genitals. They're merely parts that comprise the body - nothing extraordinary by any means - and yet nudity is often thought to be scandalous. It's ludicrous. Daffy. He feels rather neutral to their aesthetics, or rather lack of, but what they can do to a person while stimulated could be interesting. Sometimes. Moriarty relishes in evoking and observing the responses to his touch, what the softer slide of fingertips draws out compared to his teeth grazing or tongue probing. Sherlock has been trying to hold himself back, but Jim can tolerate it for now.

Between Sherlock's legs is a rather precarious position of trust to place himself in, but Jim isn't concerned. He doubts that Sherlock is going to attempt to do anything violent like choke him with his pale thighs (now _that_ would certainly be a riot). It smells clean, but holds a familiar muskiness - he's still close to nether regions, after all, it's to be expected. Sherlock's commentary about the widespread pale epidemic has Jim mildly irritated. He's not interested in _other_ _people's_ pale thighs at the moment. At least the nip has Sherlock moving finally. (Wiggle fish, wiggle.) 

"Would you shut it or do I need a gag you?" Jim asks finally exasperated. "I have until midnight. You'll lie here and take it, that's the agreement." He growls and bites hard at a new spot on Sherlock's thigh as his hand reaches for the lube. Uppity _impatient_ Virgin more like it. 

* * *

Sex is relatively simple. Increased blood-flow to the genitals heightens sensitivity for all sexes. Increased blood-flow to the genitals also flushes the smaller capillaries across the surface of the skin, heightening contact. Simple touches become sensitive and sensitivity triggers a nerve response that in turn causes muscle contraction and a flood of chemicals to the brain. Sex isn't complicated on the surface, nor should it be in practice. With animals it's even simpler. Instinctual cues, blood-flow, scents, and mounting and it's done. It's humans (and certain species in other mammals) that seem fixated on drawing it out, on _foreplay_ , and Sherlock finds himself growing tired of it. Not because it doesn't feel good, but because he doesn't know what to do with it, and it's doing its purpose a little too well.

He's almost relieved when Moriarty snaps at him. Sherlock catalogs it immediately; he has a breaking point, a threshold for his exasperation, and it humanizes him further. Something else of note: the idea of being gagged sends a small prickle of discomfort through him. Sherlock frowns, the thought colder and almost registering as a threat. Curious. Simple enough to reason out if he truly wishes to, perhaps, but he has no desire to do so. Not yet. Instead, to his credit, he _does_ try to keep the building comment at bay; Moriarty doesn't seem to enjoy his comments (which childishly make Sherlock want to continue regardless). 

Before he can say anything, however, the real reprimand comes swiftly. A soft sound comes from between his legs, something irritated and odd, a throaty rumble, and then Sherlock's self-imposed silence shatters on a clipped cry. The bite is sudden and hard and the chemicals currently coursing through his system only serve to heighten the sensitivity. He cries out, and then hisses as he draws in another breath, his hands tensing and tightening as his muscles jump under Moriarty's teeth. It _hurts_ , but it's a clarifying pain, leaving him feeling a little dizzy from the rush of immediate endorphin. 

There's no disguising the roughness to his voice now, nor the mild breathlessness. "T-technically... the agreement is you attempt to satisfy me. Lying quietly is a choice." 

He can't help himself. Incorrect statements are irksome.

* * *

Socks could be used as a gag, but the idea is rather appalling. Moriarty's tie is a possibility. The red silk would be a nice contrast to Sherlock's fair skin. It would be a delightful treat to bear witness to the normally opinionated Holmes muzzled, intelligent commentary silenced, and only able to make primitive sounds to communicate distress or what have you. However, Jim doesn't think a gag will be utilized tonight. That would be a few fancy steps too fast for his dear Sherlock.

Jim's harder bite elicits a delicious reaction from Sherlock, drawing out the first louder sound. It feels like an accomplishment. Give the man a medal -- wait, don't, Moriarty isn't done. He knows the drug is amplifying all the sensations for Sherlock, making the good _better_ and the pain _sharper_. Jollity is a lovely little thing. Despite his exasperation, he still feels much more amiable. He's warm and things are going well, he's not really cross. Sherlock may be cheeky, but he'd still prefer that to meekness. Jim abhors meek little things. It's like they were made simply to be _broken_. 

Jim feels better yet when Sherlock starts speaking, sounding breathless and more affected. He licks at the blooming mark and then trails his tongue from the reddened skin to wiry pubic hair before pulling away. 

"Thought you didn't want to chat. Can't resist throwing your opinions around, can you? Far too used to John hanging on your every word," Jim murmurs before letting his tongue slide over Sherlock's testicles. He doesn't really care for balls nor for the answer, but he doubts Sherlock has ever had the experience before and thusly it falls to Jim. His right hand reaches out for the lubricant and relocates it closer to himself. 

"You said no slobbering, but oral sex is well, rather oral, so just a heads-up, it might get a teensy bit wet." Warning given, Jim scoots up into Sherlock's nether regions, his left hand grasping the base of Sherlock's cock while he wets his lips and moves down, slipping the head of Sherlock's prick inside his mouth.

* * *

"I'd rather leave John out of this if it's all the same," Sherlock breathes almost immediately, though his tone is heavily distracted. Breathing rougher, body still singing with flickering reminders of pain, Sherlock fights to keep his eyes closed. This close, Moriarty's movements have become unpredictable but it does add a slight thrill to it. Not knowing... how quaint; there are certain things Sherlock _likes_ not knowing, even if the will result in horrific bruises later. All the better to catalog. He's not been able to trace the effects of bite wounds or sexual bruises with a fine degree of accuracy. It will only help him down the road. 

Sherlock's musing hits a roadblock then, for it's quite impossible to maintain a degree of scientific curiosity when a tongue wanders _there_. He stills and shivers, the sensations blissfully sensitive but the threat very real. Unbeknownst to him, he's already mostly hard, pain and pleasure mixing into something decidedly enticing. He almost misses the warning given, but after the words register (and Sherlock realizes that Moriarty intends to give _him_ oral sex) he fights back a small mixed note of uncertainty and anticipation and nods, wetting his lips. 

"Very well then." Inexperienced he might be. Clueless, he is not. "Just try to limit it." He's not unreasonable.

Despite his words, however, there is very little that can actually prepare him for the _sensation_ of oral sex. Logically Sherlock is well aware that it will be a wet heat, but the clinical knowledge compared to the actual experience is far different. The air around the head of his cock heats up the second before lips close around him and Sherlock's breathing hitches audibly. His own lips part as sensation races hot and sharp through him and he opens his eyes again without giving himself permission. He chances one look down, just enough to note exactly what is happening, and then the sensation begins to register once more. The image of Moriarty's lips stretched around him remains superimposed in his mind as his head falls back against the pillow, eyes rolling back before sliding shut again. It's _sharp_ , and good in a way it's never been before, at least not by his hand. 

"Is... is your drug an ecstasy derivative?" Sherlock asks, and is immediately a little shaken by how gasped his voice sounds. "Increased body temperature, heightened sensory response, feelings of euphoria... touch is supposedly euphoric and sex is immensely more pleasurable."

* * *

Jim Moriarty doesn't often suck many silky sausages, but Sherlock has a decent specimen. Accommodating the girth is bit of a stretch for Jim's jaw, but that's fine. He may be compact in size, but he has a big mouth - at least that's what he's always been told. He's never been concerned with testing that theory out. While it may be amusing to slobber about and see how Sherlock takes it, Jim decides that he ought to keep irritating Holmes to a minimum. Everyone deserves a smashing first time. Actually, no. _Very_ _few_ people deserve such a thing, but Sherlock had solved his puzzles and taken his pill _and_ the bet. He'll make sure Sherlock is left more than satisfied. So, he will need to 'limit' and ensure the blowjob isn't of the messy variety.

His mouth wrenches out a gasp from Sherlock and Jim's lips twitch as he registers Sherlock lifting his head off the pillow, likely taking in the image. _Yes_ , _Daddy is between your legs, holding your prick and with his mouth around you._ Jim hears that big curly head of hair hit the pillow again and he hums as Sherlock starts babbling about whether or not Jollity is an ecstasy derivative. _Um, hello? Daddy's mouth is occupied, not an appropriate time to ask questions._ Jim makes the equivalent of a 'wouldn't you like to know' sound before working his mouth down on Sherlock's cock. While doing so, he's mindful to keep his lips tight as to not let any saliva drip out. 

His free hand grabs up the bottle of lubricant and he's careful as he lifts it over himself and stretches his arm back. Hovering over his buttocks, he's carefully upends it and squeezes gently. The thick clear liquid is cool as it spatters over his crack and he shivers at the sensation. Sherlock has no idea that _this_ is where the night is heading. The surprise twist will be positively brilliant, exactly their kind of thing! Jim squeezes out a liberal amount before he pushes the bottle against his side to cap it. He hums to distract Sherlock as he drops it away from them. He begins to bob his head as he reaches back and lets his index finger slide against the slickness and spread the lube over his asshole. Jim isn't going to give himself any foreplay and with a grimace he pushes the tip of his finger inside slowly. Nice and slow and then he'll be rough and quick during the real thing~

* * *

No answer is immediately forthcoming, which isn't a surprise. It's both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because the sensation is quite good, but a disappointment because it's a little _too_ good, the pleasure sharp and numbing in a way that threatens to eclipse the rest of his thought. The only times Sherlock has willingly numbed everything have been out of desperation. No cases, no distraction, no _nothing._ His mind is a machine. It needs fuel and oil to function, to keep itself in tip-top shape. Without stimulation, it stagnates unless he shuts it down. Save he has never intentionally shut it down anywhere wholly unsafe, and this - distracting as it's turning out to be - has _unsafe_ written all over it.

He cares, a little. There's a whisper of something in the back of his mind, something like warning (that sounds like John's nagging voice) but it doesn't _go_ anywhere. Instead the concern is almost immediately eclipsed by a softly-vocalized hum that he can _feel_ through his nerves. Sherlock makes a sound that might be a curse and he's glad for it, because it quiets his building comment about Moriarty's mouth finally being _good_ for something. Even so, the edge of pleasure is desperate and intense and far beyond anything he's indulged in, in the past. Heroin induces euphoric sensations, but not even it comes close to oral sex on Moriarty's little concoction. 

Sherlock groans roughly; he's a selectively quiet man (as John can attest to after hours of silence that Sherlock inevitably breaks when monotony grows too stifling) but the vocalization surprises even him. He's been holding back, not out of a sense of shame but merely out of stubbornness. Yet he is also a hedonist and hedonism and stubbornness war bitterly before hedonism wins out in the end. Sherlock feels the movement below, listens to the snap of the cap of lubricant but nothing seems to come of it. Heat is all there is, a sharp, too-intense wet heat that has his fingers twitching, his hands uncertain, before he finally gives in. He is stubborn, hedonistic, and _selfish_. He doesn't particularly care if those are typically seen as negative labels. Sherlock's long fingers slide through Moriarty's hair (product indeed; his assessment is still correct) and grip. In his defense, he only uses one hand, and he doesn't shove Moriarty down or away. He merely holds, grip tight, as if straining for some involvement of control.

* * *

It never feels especially _good_ to stretch one's anus, but it must be done. The angle and position are a little awkward, as well as having his face in Sherlock's crotch and a mouthful of prick, but Moriarty is good at multitasking and his little cocktail helps soothe most agitation before it gets anywhere. The tip of his pointer finger works its way inside his body, in and out, in and out. It's a little dull, the whole routine is predictable - tip of the finger first, then to the knuckle, progress to entire length, in and out again for a few minutes and then add another finger. Rinse and repeat. Use copious amounts of lubricant and don't clench. Of course, wash thoroughly beforehand and Jim had showered and manscaped everything too - not that Sherlock would likely notice, but Jim likes looking good _everywhere_.

Sherlock is finally letting go a little and Moriarty rewards the groan given with the hollowing of his cheeks and by sucking harder. Jim continues fucking into himself while his head rises and falls. He doesn't bother trying anything fancy - no deepthroating - not while he is stretching himself open. Even he has limits. He's worked the entirety of his finger inside now and he exhales loudly through his nostrils, adjusting to the strange fullness of it. He's rushing, but he doesn't care. He has an impatient virgin to deal with. When Sherlock's hand suddenly grips at his hair, Moriarty makes a startled sound. It's not gentle, but it doesn't forcing anything, it's actually quite _nice_. It's also Sherlock's becoming involved, more of a participant than a dead fish who complains.

Jim pulls off Sherlock's prick and swallows the excess saliva in his mouth. "It's quite nice, isn't it? I imagine _you_ will feel nice too... Any thoughts about losing your virginity, Sherlock?" His voice is a little rougher, but Jim pays no mind to it. He needs Sherlock distracted and talking so he can continue his stretching in secret. Jim returns to the task of sucking on Sherlock's cock while his finger pumps into his arse and loosens himself up. Normally certain conditions have to be met for Jim Moriarty to even _consider_ letting himself be on the receiving end of anal penetration, but Sherlock Holmes is special.

* * *

Positive reinforcement. Sherlock makes the connection immediately. Despite the big fuss about psychology, the human mind is relatively simple. Reinforce positive behavior, ignore or punish undesirable behavior. The timing behind the flare of pleasure is too coincidental, and despite the slight haze to his thoughts, how thick and difficult they are to pick up with a mouth sucking him, he understands. Vocalizing is desirable; Moriarty wants to _hear_ him. If he makes noise, the pleasure deepens. It's markedly simple and leaves Sherlock shivering as soft, wet heat conforms to the line of his prick and the suction makes his grip tighten past the point of 'acceptable' for most people. But then, Jim Moriarty is not 'most people'.

The sound of surprise he makes vibrates through where they're connected and Sherlock bites out a smaller curse, chest rising and falling with quicker breaths he immediately seeks to regulate. Moriarty either enjoys the tug to his hair, or Sherlock's participation but Sherlock doesn't look to see. Sensory input is already past intense, and he's almost relieved for the break when the mouth slides from his cock, leaving it oddly colder and damp but not sopping. Sherlock silently files that away; Moriarty has taken his input to heart. Interesting. 

His voice is also rough. _That_ is interesting, and Sherlock considers it for a moment before deciding it's likely friction. While the vocal cords are deep within the throat, the soft palate is simple to agitate, and when agitated, the voice roughens. Sherlock thinks back on sensation, still breathing hard, his fingers still in Moriarty's hair, but it doesn't take him long to find himself distracted by the question. Ah, yes, of course. The entire point of the evening. The blessed _virginity_. 

"That it's hardly worth all the trouble. The body reverts back to its assumed shape soon after following initial penetration. A man who has engaged in--" Sherlock's voice cuts off immediately. Moriarty's mouth is back, his lips and tongue clever and quick, and Sherlock hisses, understandably distracted. The question sits for a few moments until Sherlock can gather his thoughts again. It's with sheer stubbornness and a desire to distract himself from the sheer _scope_ of pleasure that he continues. 

"A-a man who has... has never engaged in anal sex is just as _tight_ as a man who has gone without for a few months. _Virginity_ is an emotional construct. While the... the brain will form remembered pathways upon initial stimuli, that is the only physical manifestation. The only lingering proof will be your pride."

* * *

Sherlock is right of course, virginity is an emotional construct and Jim Moriarty has never been a man obsessed with snatching them up. He enjoys the thought and action of imprinting certain standards and experiences for partners who haven't done this or that. (Daddy could be a good teacher too when he wished to be.) Jim isn't always selfless, no. Sometimes it's simply more fun to go against the grain, against the expectations and relish in a distraught partner, to eat up their disappointment and unease. Right now, however, Jim is going to prove to Sherlock that sex can be rather an enjoyable activity with the right partner.

Sherlock's grip is going to make a right mess out of his hair, but that's acceptable and simple enough to remedy afterward. Jim can appreciate the sentiment about the trouble involved. After all, he's the one with a finger up his arse. Anal sex _is_ troublesome and certainly time consuming. Definitely not always worth it. With vaginal intercourse the amount of foreplay and prep is laughable in comparison. Well, as neither one of them is a woman, it's a burden they must bear - and perhaps it may be more of a conquest given the effort put in. The conquest of Sherlock Holmes, but there would be no riches and treasures of the usual variety at the end, but that's okay, Moriarty's finances are hardly stressed.

He sucks and bobs and enjoys hearing the slight stammer in Sherlock's speaking as finishes his claim. Moriarty hardly cares if the 'only lingering proof' will be his pride, for he is rather fond of his pride, thank you. Pride is a great asset to possess provided it was warranted. (His is, of course.) He hums to cover up the slight flinch to his features as he shoves his middle finger in. It's much too fast, but he can handle it. He's on a time limit after all. He has until midnight. Jim's fingers go in and out and head goes up and down and he feels like a very efficient machine. Jim can feel the stirring of more arousal from the discomfort. He likes pushing himself at times. Sadist? Most assuredly. Sadomasochist? At times. Why not dabble? He rubs his tongue against the underside of Sherlock's cock and is mindful of any possible 'slobber' (easier said than done).

* * *

He's not saying anything that Moriarty is not already aware of, but given how long he's spent in the company of one John Watson, Sherlock has grown quite accustomed to spelling everything out from the beginning. He doesn't keep company with those with any true level of intelligence, but at least John has heart and generally doesn't respond to Sherlock's lack of empathy in the way most do. ( _Freak. Psychopath._ ) It means that Sherlock's new 'autopilot' is explaining from the ground up, and it's not like Moriarty is currently in any position to insist he shut his mouth once again. _His_ mouth is quite occupied, after all, and it feels too bloody good.

 _Good_ doesn't mean _satisfying,_ though. Sherlock's fingers tighten in Moriarty's hair and it's in the hazy, pleasured fog of a mouth wrapped around his prick and soft cheeks hollowed around him that he realizes the hair under his hand is surprisingly soft. He tugs only once, bordering on desperation for distraction, and finds it's not slick either. It holds none of the characteristics of gelled hair, but Sherlock is well aware of the product used. He casts about for a few moments, relieved for the quick puzzle but it's markedly simple to solve. Flaxseed gel. Of course he'd not want to risk his comfort.

Before Sherlock can comment on it, the vibration around his cock starts up again and another clipped sound escapes him. It's not a cry, but it is markedly closer to a moan were it not for the clenched teeth and tighter grip in Moriarty's hair. Then the situation is only made worse (better?) as a tongue rubs along his frenulum and the root vein on the underside of his cock and he twitches his hips upwards only once, but it's telling. It's the first involuntary movement he's managed, and he sounds almost pained as he tugs at Moriarty's hair. 

"Careful," he grinds out. The pleasure has grown sharp enough to hurt but it does help to take the edge off the coiled pleasure within. "Do you intend to make me come before you _deflower_ me?" Sherlock asks, and the sarcasm in his voice is still biting despite the pleasure. 

"This is hardly preparation."

* * *

Fingers tighten in Jim's hair, the sensation is sharp, but not unpleasant. Sadomasochist, remember? Sherlock is not exactly rough _or_ rude, so it's fine in Jim's books. If Sherlock tried to push his head down or thrust too enthusiastically, _that_ would be a problem. No face-fucking, please, he's not in the mood to be on the receiving end of such a thing. When the yank comes, Moriarty is more curious if Sherlock is feeling bold or simply seeking distraction. Perhaps a bit of both. Either way, it's rather nice that Sherlock is being more active.

In and out, up and down. Eventually the burn fades and he can feel himself stretch to accommodate his fingers. Jim focuses on swallowing down excess saliva, keeping his lips tight, breathing through his nose and trying to relax around the intrusion of his fingers all the while occasionally pushing his pelvis against the bed to get some friction against his half-hard cock. Multitasking at its best. And what does Sherlock do in response? He complains. Jim _knows_ he's doing a fantastic job because Sherlock nearly moaned and his hips actually lifted off the mattress. 

Enough. He's had enough.

He pulls off Sherlock's prick quickly, not caring that there's spit left behind in the process. His jaw aches and he removes his fingers. He wipes them on the sheets with no concern. The hotel's slaves will deal with it. "Daddy knows exactly what's he doing, you uppity fish," Moriarty chides. "Just you stay still." 

He wastes no time in righting himself into half-standing over Sherlock, his legs on either side of Sherlock's bony hips. He reaches down, grabs the lubricant and squirts a nice amount on his hand before slicking up the erection below him in three quick strokes. Moriarty reaches between his legs and holds said prick still while he lowers himself. While he has stretched, Jim's not done enough. It's a struggle to push the head of Sherlock's prick inside of him and it has Jim's jaw clenching at the sudden flare of pain. He blinks and considers Sherlock, wanting to observe every detail. His eyes are wide and muscles tense as he sits himself down slowly, taking inch by inch. Once again he wipes his hand off beside them (he should wipe in on Sherlock, but he's choosing to not be petty). His hands come to grasp Sherlock's shoulders and Jim exhales slowly. 

"Surprise~" he pants out, grinning as Sherlock's prick becomes fully encased in his body.

* * *

It's almost a relief when Moriarty pulls away from him, the tight seal of his lips broken, leaving Sherlock's prick feeling somewhat wet and colder in the surrounding air again, but this time he doesn't complain. Instead his muscles almost immediately relax again in relief, the knife's edge of pleasure swirling aimlessly for a moment before beginning to settle again. It _feels_. Sherlock can't currently ascertain if it feels good or not, but his nerves are singing with sensation and his thoughts can start to reform a little easier without the sharper stimulation. He's breathing harder, the hair close to his forehead matted slightly with sweat, and Sherlock is somewhat confused to note that - this time - Moriarty's voice is almost pleased when he speaks. There's a note of chiding there, useless descriptors ( _Daddy_ isn't simply for shock value then and 'fish' has stuck around for some reason) but ultimately Moriarty doesn't sound upset the way he had last time.

Sherlock is still breathing a little rougher when the bed suddenly dips. He sluggishly calculates that Moriarty is moving closer and straddling his hips for some reason. It seems counterproductive, but the command to stay still is Sherlock's first clue that he's missed something. He's only just started to frown, confused, when Moriarty moves. He doesn't rush, but he's quick in Sherlock's perception. There's a sudden slickness of his hand and then a grip towards the base of his cock that doesn't make sense. Then he feels something that is decidedly _not_ Moriarty's mouth and no sooner has he registered this fact than suddenly there's a viscerally tight heat that sinks down over the head of his cock and Sherlock's exhale sounds punched out of him in shock.

His eyes snap open as his mouth does and it's a rush of sensory detail that doesn't make sense. His thoughts feel clotheslined, tangled and tripped up over themselves; all he knows is that Moriarty is above him, _on him_ , and the pleasure is markedly different. It's not wet and languid, it's tight and clenching and immediately hot and the heat feels like it's burned its way through his mind. Sherlock doesn't register his own sounds, the deeper breaths and the rougher, shocked groans as Moriarty lowers himself down. Sherlock's hands move, both of them clumsy and grasping, but they eventually settle on slim hips. He trips over a number of observations, but they're disjointed. The snap of the cap of lube and no preparation, how forgiving to comments Moriarty had been, the fact Sherlock had only ever felt _one_ of his hands, the command to keep his eyes closed; he'd been planning this. For how long? Long enough. And... condom, he'd heard no condom. Sherlock means to protest, but he doesn't. Instead he feels Moriarty's hands on his shoulders and dazedly notes the grin as he struggles with his own expression, open and pleasured and his hands tight enough to bruise. 

"What--" Sherlock tries, but his thoughts are solely centered around _tight_ and _hot_ and what had, in fact, been a surprise. And of everything, of every moment between them, _this_ is what's made the most difference. _This_ is why Jim Moriarty is a thrilling adversary. He's not predictable, and Sherlock only grips tighter, his hips lifting a little as a quick flicker of a somewhat manic smile tries to tug at his lips. 

"Brilliant," he says, and he isn't talking about the sensation.

* * *

Usually certain conditions have to be present for Jim Moriarty to be willing to have a prick up his arse. Conditions haven't been met this time, but Sherlock Holmes is special and special people deserve special treatment. Scratch that. Sherlock Holmes is a special _fish_ who gets to have a special surprise. Lucky fish. There's no balloons and confetti to accompany this unveiling of said surprise, but Jim thinks the tight clench of his body around Sherlock's cock is enough. At least for a _virgin._

It may not be Moriarty's first time doing such an activity, but it _is_ intense. He feels impossibly full, stuffed like a turkey that the whole family is going to devour for Christmas dinner. The too-fast and too-much pained sensation is also present. It burns, but Jim's certain there's been no tearing so, it's manageable. He has a high pain tolerance. Why shouldn't it hurt? Why shouldn't his nerves be alight? The intensity is divine, it quiets the roar in his mind. He holds himself as still as he can, needing time to adjust (still only human - still dreadful). Sherlock's hands on his hips unknowingly help steady him, but there's still a strain on his thighs and back.

It hasn't escaped Jim's notice that Sherlock had been vocal while he slowly slid down on his stripper pole. (He'd pay a good £100 to see Sherlock Holmes try to work his way around a stripper's pole. Money well spent in his mind.) A confused ' _what_ ' from Sherlock goes nowhere and Jim hums his approval. Suddenly hands on his hips grasp tighter and Jim flinches as Sherlock fucks into him and gives him a lovely compliment to make up for it.

"Yes, yes I am," Moriarty agrees, sounding more breathless than he'd like - but it’s true, he is brilliant. 

Jim lifts himself off a few inches before sitting back down with a grunt. "Up and down I shall go," he comments and repeats the motion.

* * *

There's nothing else but the sensation and the realization that once again, Moriarty has surprised him. It's better than the way his nerves are alight and the buzzing in his mind is so much quieter now, better than the sex and close contact. Sherlock's world is so damn monotonous, so predictable. Ordinary people with ordinary morals and cares. Empathy misplaced for people they can't help, terror for things that should evoke none. Barring the challenge of his cases, everything else is simply boring. Everything else, that is, until this. Until James Moriarty. He's insane, his comments senseless and common but behind the mask of deceptive vocalizations is a mind fit to rival Sherlock's own. It's fitting then, that the intellectual intimacy should change into a different kind.

This hasn't changed his mind about sex, but in this one instance, Sherlock finds he's no longer impatient with the concept. Instead he's left shuddering, pinpricks of too-hot and too-sharp sensation clawing through him like knives as Moriarty leans over him and his muscles tense and clench. It's all mind-numbing heat and the suspicion - no, the deduction - that this is not standard for Moriarty. He's not a man to willingly pass another control. Even in an act generally seen as more traditionally submissive, he's taken control. So this is to further a purpose. Satisfaction? Eliminate the pain of penetration to prove a point? Absolutely brilliant.

Sherlock's hands seem almost too large and too tight on such slim hips but the bone under his hands won't break. Moriarty likes pain, then. He catches sight of a flinch when he dares to look, but it doesn't stop him from moving, from lifting his hips and sliding back down with a grunt that's almost eclipsed by Sherlock's groan. His head drops back on the pillow behind him, chest heaving with rougher breaths as he struggles to think past the sensation. 

"You don't... do this for everyone," Sherlock grinds out, sounding breathless and like he's on the knife's edge between laughing and groaning. "Am I that special? 'Dear Jim, please make it _good_ for me'?"

* * *

There's a lot of repetitive motions in sexual activity - in and out's, up and down's. It can often get monotonous. Boring. Dull. _Ordinary_. But playing and _surprises_? That's what makes sex _fun_ and a worthwhile pursuit.He's surprised the great Sherlock Holmes. Oh, he talked up the whole deflowering business, mentioned _taking,_ but Moriarty is the one who's _giving_ right now. He's fingered himself open, going through the bare minimum of preparation to have Sherlock's prick fill him up to then blow Sherlock's mind with a good shag. It may be interesting to see what question Sherlock would go with if left unsatisfied, but Jim Moriarty is going to leave Sherlock _more than_ satisfied. It's a matter of _pride,_ people.

Sherlock deduces that Jim's current 'receiving' role in sex is uncommon. Righto, correct. Jim doesn't need to validate the comment; they both know he more than likes control, likes being ahead of the game and wouldn't easily allow himself into a position of submission or vulnerability. The hands on his hips grip tight - tightly enough to leave bruises and Moriarty wonders if Sherlock would _feel_ anything about them later. Perhaps Sherlock wants to create art too? (It's a thought Jim wants to test at a later date.)

_'Am I that special? 'Dear Jim, please make it **good** for me...'_

It's the second time this night that Sherlock has brought up the 'Dear Jim...' line and used his first name. Moriarty vividly remembers their first meeting at the pool. A nice, proper showdown. Explosives strapped to John, a British Army Browning L9A1, snipers... All the while two men - _adversaries_ \- regarded each other with keen interest. He can still hear Sherlock delivering the ' _Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me...'_ lines. He rather likes that memory, he rather likes Sherlock saying 'Dear Jim'. 

 

"Just so," he answers. It's the answer he gave to Sherlock back then. Jim licks his lips and leans forward, their faces much closer while Sherlock's prick slides almost all the way out. They could kiss, but what would that accomplish? Instead, Jim begins to fuck just the tip of Sherlock's cock in controlled movements. There's an ache still present, but it's a reminder he's _alive._ His hands come to work their way into slightly sweaty hair as rapt eyes watch Sherlock's face. 

"Daddy believes you are rather special, but we'll see how long that lasts."

* * *

The words are delivered in a similar way, Sherlock's voice shaken and breathless from a pleasure difficult to focus through, but the soft, lilting sarcasm hasn't left him even now. Yet just as it had been at the pool, he sounds impressed, for Moriarty is a complicated question mark in his mind. He's dangerous and unpredictable and deadly on one hand but fascinating and amusing and _thrilling_ on the other. It has the makings of a good, interesting obsession despite what John and Lestrade and anyone else in Sherlock's circle would say. He's never claimed to be a _good_ man nor does he wish to be one. He's selfish and easily bored and a hedonist, and thus far, Moriarty has addressed and reflected each side of him. They are two mirrors facing each other, endlessly reflecting each other. Thrilling indeed.

Then something changes. There's a flicker in Moriarty's eyes - either pleasure or pain or satisfaction, Sherlock can't be bothered to figure it out now - and suddenly they're closer. It's _more_ , the sensation more centered and concentrated, and his own teeth grit at the sudden flare of pleasure that has his back arching as much as it can and his hands leaving bruises on pale hips. The answer is familiar and Sherlock breathes a soft sound that might have been a laugh had he had the breath for it. As he doesn't, it just sounds like a gasp. 

Perhaps the closeness should be uncomfortable but it's not. It's intense, and there's no sloppy attempt to kiss, no affected sounds, no forced intimacy. Moriarty isn't watching him the way a lover would. He's watching him because he _can_. Because there's an openness to Sherlock's expression he can't contain right now, and it's as much an invasion of privacy as it is absolutely brilliant. It's manipulative and opportunistic and Sherlock can admire something being done to him that he so often does to others. Though not even he is expecting the flare of... something in his chest at what has to be an unintentional compliment. Pleasure is clouding his mind, focused and sharp, the sensation so much _more_ with the hot, clenching, silken feeling around his prick, but the words - _you are rather special_ \- break through the fog. The final edge - _we'll see how long that lasts_ \- registers for what it is: a challenge. A taunt.

Sherlock looks up at Moriarty, the both of them breathing heavily, and the desire to wrest control away, to offer a surprise in return is suddenly impossible to ignore. He knows what Moriarty expects because it's what _he_ expects. Sex is sex. This is as much a meeting of minds as it is meeting of bodies, and Moriarty intends to _take_ as much as he can, to thrill himself on his own power. Given how close they are, and given the slide of fingers in his hair, there's only one response that comes to mind and Sherlock doesn't fight it. Instead a quick pull of would-be-smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Clever, always so clever.

"I suppose we will," Sherlock says, and then moves. 

It's one movement, not two, not three. Moriarty's quick enough that he could predict and react to more than one fluid movement, so Sherlock makes sure he has it planned properly. Just as one hand grabs Moriarty's hip and pulls down, so too does his other hand slide up to curl in his hair and yank him down. He arches his hips, driving himself up into that tight heat just as he pulls Moriarty into a full kiss. There's no tenderness, no care, just the passion of their game. He'd been relieved there had been no kiss, so he doubts Moriarty will expect this.

* * *

This close, there's an intimacy, but it's not of an affectionate or loving nature, no. There will be no sweet words murmured, no soothing gestures. No romance. Nothing ridiculous like that. Their intimacy is one of a mutual understanding, a kinship and meeting of minds as their bodies are connected and ignited with sensation and feeling. It's resplendent and the burn of penetration doesn't detract, but adds another layer of sensitivity. He will feel this in the morning. Likely another day at the very least. Jim Moriarty will feel Sherlock _deep_ inside of him after the fact, a smarting ache to remind him of his conquest. And oh, what a conquest it's been.

They both are breathing quicker, heart rates elevated, perspiring. All physiological responses to what's transpiring. He's tempted to reach and press the pads of index and middle fingers to Sherlock's carotid artery and find his exact BPM, but Jim resists. It's hardly an appropriate time to play doctor. He'd like to lick up that long neck, too. This close, he watches Sherlock's face, the slight look of lingering shock and confusion being steadily overridden by pleasure - pleasure brought on by _his doing, his body._ Jim is proud of himself. He'll use whatever means necessary to break Sherlock's composure down, to affect cracks and have it crumble away in time. Jim Moriarty is a fucking force of nature, didn't you know? He'll throw himself against Sherlock's rocky shores until he erodes that bedrock and transforms it into something else entirely. (From a child, he's been called destructive and troublesome, a right pain in the arse. Moriarty is here to make a ruckus, to stir the pot and Sherlock's now caught his eye.)

Jim's eyes narrow imperceptibly at a fleeting twitch to Sherlock's lips. What's this curious fish up to? Moriarty finds out a moment later, one smooth action of a hand flying into his hair and yanking his head down while the other pulls at his hips. It's a crashing of sensation, his prostate glanced by Sherlock's cock sparks an acute flare of heightened pleasure while his mouth is captured in a kiss of all things. Jim shudders, his body clenching around Sherlock's prick. Frankly, of the two actions, the kiss is more of a surprise. It's a welcome one, though. Nothing gentle, just hunger and Sherlock wanting to up the ante. Moriarty can appreciate the sentiment. He grinds down onto Sherlock and moans while he bites at Sherlock's bottom lip _hard._ His own hands pull at curls.

"I like the show of spirit, Sherlock," Jim comments after breaking off the kiss, a genuinely amused smile on his face. "Do you want to fuck me properly now? Should I let you?" This would be another allowance.


	3. The thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The struggle is tantamount to flirting and Sherlock doesn't disappoint him. Sherlock doesn't pull his punches, he's not gentle nor does he relent in his hold. Jim Moriarty is very much pinned and at the detective's mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story isn't head, so here, have an update! MERRY/HAPPY CHRISTMAS ☆ ♥
> 
> Moriarty written by Merry ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com)) | Sherlock written by Dapperscript ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

This has never been about staunchly refusing to be an active participant. This has never been Sherlock determined to have a poor time in order to rig the bet. In order to give Moriarty a fighting chance, his involvement is necessary and while he's not necessarily shied away from it these past few minutes, this is the first thing he's done in order to move things along without being told. Generally kissing is boring. It's a meeting of mouths, typically between people with poor oral hygiene and it's wet and soft and _slight_ sensation that tends to set his skin crawling. Sherlock had kissed a few people in his youth, enough to know he generally doesn't like it. He likes harder sensation, sharper - the kind of kiss only acceptable between ex-partners and moments with no care. Sherlock has always suspected it wouldn't be as boring, as monotonous and _wet_ , and as it turns out, he's correct.

The kiss is not gentle. Sherlock can feel Moriarty shudder, can feel the twitch around his cock and the feeling of his muscles clenching down and gripping him _tight_ is enough to make Sherlock groan, a muffled sound of pleasure escaping him against Moriarty's lips. The kiss is biting, Sherlock channeling the brief flare of _too much sensation_ into the kiss, his fingers curled tight in Moriarty's hair and silently pleased that the gesture is returned. Wet-tight-hot moves around him suddenly, a low grind that has him gripping tight enough to hurt, and he's beyond relieved when sharp teeth catch his lower lip. The sensation is a painful distraction. Sherlock hisses and stills, and Moriarty draws back, smiling, looking as impressed as Sherlock feels. He tongues at his lower lip and isn't surprised to taste salt. That will be difficult to hide from John later. 

It takes Sherlock a moment to come back down, for the pain in his lip to abate enough to think past it, for him to realize what else had happened. The tight clench, he suddenly realizes, had been pleasure. Moriarty had moaned, and even now he sounds breathless. Sherlock is honestly surprised that he feels mildly pleased with himself. Sex has never been engaging before. Predictable, boring, sloppy, a breeding ground for indifference, yes. Engaging? No. Not until this. His only true criticism is how _intense_ the sensation is, how it seems to eclipse everything else. 

"I don't know. _Will_ you let me?" he says somewhat breathlessly, tonguing again at the blood welling up at his lip. Moriarty _is_ a brave man. Blood _and_ unprotected sex. "I believe this was your idea. Your endeavor. You've planned it out. What's the next step? Or have I altered the plan?"

* * *

His teeth have bitten hard enough to draw blood. Ooops. Red blooms on Sherlock's bottom lip and it's lovely to see and be the cause of it. There's no way to have a worthwhile kiss without swapping some spit, so seeing a sheen of wetness left behind on Sherlock's mouth is also pleasing. Sherlock started it, so Jim doesn't feel bad that he'd been overzealous in his lip-locking behavior. Besides, his mouth is _also_ wet. Sherlock had hardly held anything back whilst kissing him and honestly, as far as kissing went, Sherlock was peculiarly skilled in it. It wasn't what Jim would have expected given Sherlock's perspective on sex-related activities, but it was nice to be surprised. He wonders how many times Sherlock has used kissing as a tool, a means to an end. Feigned intimacy was a great method to manipulate people, after all. Sherlock hadn't kissed him out of any desire. Sherlock had wanted to shake things up and Moriarty has respect for that kind of intent.

With interest, he watches Sherlock tongue at the small wound. The initial throb has faded into something dull, the fullness simply an intense feeling that he's constantly aware of. Moriarty continues to stare at Sherlock - as if he could look away from the man that's piqued his interest and the man he's _gifted_ this experience to. But the question on his mind is _would_ he let Sherlock wrest a portion of control back? In their current position Sherlock is limited, but there are a handful of positions that would enable Sherlock to be more 'on top'...

"While making plans is all well and good," Jim begins and he moves his head closer, nestling his own cheek against the side of Sherlock's. There, that's better. His mouth is near Sherlock's ear so he can whisper (because whispering is fun). "I'm sure you'll agree that it's much more thrilling to deviate and be surprised." With intent, he grinds down on Sherlock. His own prick is now hard and trapped between their bellies. 

"Why don't you make me, hmm? Fuck me like you mean it." 

* * *

This position is not one Sherlock particularly minds, but the fact that Moriarty has brought up moving into another means that it's what he wants. Perhaps he's not allowed it yet, perhaps he won't, but he's revealed enough of his hand by the mere unprovoked suggestion to all but announce what he wants. Listening to those who attempt to manipulate is often a wonderful way of subverting their own desires back upon them and Moriarty, while a brilliant, clever man, is still just a man. He has impulses and desires like most do and he's distracted enough to have gotten cocky. Sherlock likes to think that he can see an impressed respect in dark eyes and _that_ sends another thrill through him, aching and sharp. He likes showing off, and he likes impressing people because he is impressive. Moriarty is just clever enough to notice.

There is a certain extra intimacy when Moriarty leans in, but it's not affectionate or intimate in the way most would expect. It's closeness intended to manipulate and Sherlock thinks nothing of it until that low whisper in his ear sends and unexpected shudder through him. Ah. Yes. The drug. Sensitivity and awareness. This is the closest they've been. Sherlock feels the tight heat that is no less blinding than it had been before; it's still a struggle to think past it, but he's not missed the fact that Moriarty is hard against him. He can feel the press of him against his stomach (he's not entirely certain how he feels about it) and when he grinds back down, Sherlock grunts, curling his fingers enough to scratch his nails over skin, and the challenge in Moriarty's voice is so achingly obvious. As is the need. This is Moriarty's endeavor. Moriarty _wants_ him to make him but likely doesn't expect him to.

Sherlock grips Moriarty's hip hard enough to keep him still so that he can focus, his own breathing rougher as he considers how to proceed. He knows general positioning but he also knows what he wants. He remembers the moan, remembers the clench around him, remembers how surprised Moriarty had looked that Sherlock had been bold. He doesn't doubt that the thrill of surprise goes both ways and so Sherlock thinks back to positioning, which angle he'd used, how Moriarty had been held at the time. He'd tilted his hips forwards so the anterior wall is his aim. It's difficult in this position but rolling over will make it difficult too. Hands and knees, simple, yes, but not the easiest to transition to. For the first time, Sherlock bemoans a lack of experience and the pill he'd let sit under his tongue. 

_'Why don't you make me_ ' doesn't sound like he'll be cooperative either. So Sherlock doesn't assume Moriarty will be. Quick, then, like ripping off a plaster. He knows what he wants. Getting there is another matter. Quick calculations tell him what _won't_ work. Rolling over, shoving, spinning, no. One fluid motion or a series of distracting small ones. The latter then. Sherlock moves his hands down to Moriarty's hips and breathes, "Very well," and then moves. 

It's inelegant; Sherlock doesn't know how to _fuck_ the way he knows how to fight, so he relies on what he does know. He gets his feet under him and suddenly snaps his hips up, hard, high enough to threaten to buck Moriarty off. It feels sharp and intense for a moment and then he drops his hips and draws out on the same motion - also bloody intense - and then he's moving, counting on the thrust to serve as distraction. He pushes Moriarty to the side, taking advantage of his upended balance, and uses the momentum (and the bleeding king-sized bed) to roll him over onto his stomach instead of his back, and then moves after him. One arm throws itself across pale shoulders, holding his face against the bed, and then Sherlock moves in behind him, pulling his hips up with the other hand, lining himself up, and grinding out a low sound as he pushes back inside, angling his hips down to grind - something else he's noticed Moriarty seems partial to. 

* * *

For a man like James Moriarty - always in control, always the one giving the orders - it's a rare titillation to have control _taken_ away _._ Of course, he has to be in the right mood, the right mindset for such an occurrence, but Sherlock Holmes is _special_ (for now), so why not see if he can rise to the challenge? Some individuals couldn't manage it -- too uncertain and too worried about doing the 'wrong thing'. It was those disappointing individuals that Jim had an easy time throwing out or even getting rid of altogether depending on their dismal failure. He had no time for partners who were going to be indecisive twits. 

He is certain Sherlock can figure out that this is actually what _he_ wants. He wants to incite Sherlock Holmes, have the detective spring into action with a show of force. Taunt delivered, Jim waits to see what shall ensue. Sherlock's hand on his hip is a bruising pressure, but it's one that he doesn't mind. Jim knows it's done so he can't wiggle around and make it distracting for Sherlock (a pity, for that sounds rather fun). The cogs turns in Sherlock's mind, around and around, going through the logistics of transitioning into various positions. How much does Sherlock know? They'll find out. 

Two words - 'very well' - a promise and Jim closes his eyes, primed and waiting for the jolt, waiting to be shook up, waiting for the _surprise_. 

He doesn't have to wait long. Sherlock's feet move and then there's a rather abrupt near violent thrust that threatens to upend him. And Jim _is_ distracted by the sudden intense feeling that he _is_ surprised by the push to the side. He gives a half breathless laugh as he falls, his eyes opening. He's then rolled over onto his stomach and Sherlock is following after him a second later, an arm coming to to his shoulders and and a hand holding the side of his face down into the bed ( _rude,_ but also delightful). The other hand is back on a sore hip with surprising strength that Jim wouldn't suspect and his hips are are lifted off the bed (he obliges, _this_ is what he wants). There's a tantalizing anticipation for only a moment before Sherlock's prick plunges back in and is angled in such way that it's grinding against his prostate. 

Jim's hands clutch at the bed sheets. He shudders almost violently against the intense frisson of pleasure that makes him almost try and crawl away. The thing is, he _can't_ in this position and that only heightens everything -- adds a sense of danger. He struggles anyway, trying to lift his chest off the bed just to test Sherlock's strength. He also tries to look up and behind. When he finds himself unable to do either, he finally speaks up. 

"There we go!" As best as he can, he rocks his ass back into Sherlock. "Can't kill me, might as well fuck me," he grits out and then chuckles. Too appropriate. "You going to punish Daddy for his crimes? For threatening to make John Watson go boom-splat, or for killing that poor old blind ladyyyy?"

* * *

The entire endeavor takes seconds but it leaves Sherlock breathless, his muscles straining against a strength he'd generally have little problem finding and harnessing, but the drug coursing through his system has raised his body temperature. His muscles are loose with relaxation instead of coiled the way he generally has them but despite the difficulty, he still manages. This is beyond the bet now. The terms are hardly important; it's never _been_ about the bet. It's been about an excuse. An excuse for a question, to pick a mind, and an excuse for shared company amidst the monotony of normal people. Sherlock knows immediately that no one else has done this; he's _surprised_ Moriarty, has impressed him, and the thrill of that is better than the sex. The two combined is practically euphoric.

He takes small snippets away from the seconds it takes to re-situate himself but they imprint upon his mind like snapshots. He sees the expression on Moriarty's face at that first violent thrust, hears the slightly shocked, breathless laugh when Sherlock shoves him hard to the side. He hears the sound of impact as Moriarty hits the bed, and he _feels_ the way Moriarty reacts when he's suddenly filled again, held down. He shivers and shudders and his knuckles are white in the sheets, and every fraction of his posture is bliss. Because _this_ is what he wants. He wants something interesting, craves the pain as much as pleasure, craves sensation and unpredictability and _new_ the same way Sherlock does. So when he feels the body under him begin to fight, Sherlock understands enough to lean down hard, his forearm digging hard against the bones of Moriarty's spine as he pins him in place, breathless but just as thrilled. He knows what to do because this is what he'd want were their positions reversed. He's as much a danger for Moriarty as Moriarty is to him, snipers be damned. He's clever and he's unpredictable. They both are. The gun in the kitchen is child's play by comparison.

Yet despite this success, Sherlock is still affected. The new angle may not be as deep, but he'd been correct about positioning. Every grind of his hips has the body under him tightening and clenching, muscles rippling with involuntary pleasured responses that grip him tight and send a pleasant fire racing through him. Sherlock's breathing is uneven, his muscles locked, and yet he still keeps Moriarty pinned despite pleasure that's almost too much racing wildly through him. He's not so far gone that he misses it when Moriarty speaks, his voice muffled and strained but he sounds thrilled, if malicious. Sherlock doesn't ignore the shiver of anticipation from the tone.

Sure enough, when he can't fight back physically, Moriarty has turned to his words. They tear roughly through his mind like claws, raking heat through his common sense that makes him almost growl as he snaps his hips forward again and grinds in deep, pressing Moriarty harder against the bed. 

"Is it a punishment if D _addy_ really _wants_ it?" He says back, and there's a sarcastic sneer in his voice, weaker and unsteady as it is. "Were I going to punish you, I'd stop. Or draw it out. You don't like to be teased, not when you _want_ something." Sherlock presses down harder and spreads his own legs, making it more difficult for Moriarty to move back on his prick. It affords him more control like this.

"I could hurt you, but you'd like it. But _denying_ you, now that would be different, and you couldn't do anything about it. Not like this. If I wanted to keep you like this until midnight, I could, and I believe you _like_ that I could," he adds, and this time there's a curl of satisfaction in his voice. Oh, the snipers would be an issue but this is still thrilling. If Moriarty's using his words, Sherlock will too. 

* * *

Where's this beanpole of a man keeping all of his strength? Not that Jim spent much time looking over a naked Sherlock Holmes, but he had simply came to the conclusion of 'tall, lanky, bony.' He would hesitate to use the word lithe or athletic, but there's clearly a coiled power within Sherlock's slender frame. The struggle is tantamount to flirting and Sherlock doesn't disappoint him. Sherlock doesn't pull his punches, he's not gentle nor does he relent in his hold. Jim Moriarty is very much pinned and at the detective's mercy.

But this _is_ what Jim wants. He wants the strain and the fight, he wants Sherlock to _take_ and _push_ , for them to deviate from the loosely formulated plan that he'd began hashing together earlier in the night. He could have easily sucked, fingered and fucked Sherlock Holmes. He could have easily rode him to climax too. Frankly, he's surprised that Sherlock has lasted _this_ long. He'll have to give him a round of applause after everything's said and done. Jim's a little impressed knowing it's Sherlock's first time and given the heightened sensations on Jollity. Anal sex may be more time consuming, but he knows from experience the hot tight clench is exquisite. 

There's a line between too much and not enough and Sherlock's actions zig-zag across it. Moriarty's goading has Sherlock making a rather lovely aggressive sound while grinding and pushing him down into the bed. Jim's own moan is ragged and half-muffled. He wants to laugh, but stimulation to his prostate is far too distracting as is Sherlock's retort. Maybe his fish is actually a piranha, for Sherlock bites back with his words. Piranhas have strong jaws and finely serrated teeth, often aggressive in pairs -- will one of them lose an eye during this fish fight?

Sherlock sees and understands this most recent action as if he were merely a children's book with large font - easy to read with a glance. _Gather round children, let me tell you a story. 'There once was a boy named James Moriarty and sometimes when he was very, very bad they locked...'_ No. No time for stories, busy shagging. 

(But does he want to be understood? Does he want to be transparent in such a way? Hasn't he always been the outsider, the boy who played alone, the man with no ties, no weakness?)

Sherlock's words end on a note of satisfaction and have a Jim feeling breathless in a different way. To be willingly powerless in such a situation is its own rush, but to be aroused, fucked and willingly powerless to one's adversary is exhilarating. 

"You might enjoy that even more than I would," he finally replies, closing his eyes. "It certainly sounds and feels like you're having a good time." 

* * *

If Sherlock is being honest, Moriarty is correct. Monotonous as sex is, pointless as the melding of bodies, chasing a blip of a high on the horizon can be, he is having a good time. Each sensation is sharp and intense - _too_ intense in many ways - but even that edge of pain is oddly sensitive. It's done its job unintentionally perhaps. Every time Sherlock begins to feel that sharp edge approaching, something happens. Moriarty pushes back, he presses in too deep, there's a clench, and the stimulation races through him sharply enough to hurt. It's likely not the intended use of the drug, but it keeps him at bay, keeps him in control, though the constant back-and-forth between close and 'too much' is slowly maddening. But then, they're both a bit mad.

Moriarty is taking enjoyment from being pinned and shagged without a say in the matter. He's taking just as much pleasure out of Sherlock pinning him down as he is from the words and the slow grind into his body. And when it comes down to it, Sherlock is caught in pleasure and intrigue, everything engaged. His thoughts are blissfully quiet except where he needs them to not be and his whole being is engaged. Mind, body, and arguably soul, though he's still on the fence regarding them. _Instincts_ is a better word for his purposes.

"Wasn't that your goal?" Sherlock asks, breathless, leaning his weight on the forearm he has across Moriarty's back. It doesn't escape his notice that one movement would shove his face in against the pillow. He's strong enough to keep him there, to _end_ him, and yet the thought only crosses his mind like clouds in the sky. He follows the path to the end and the end is _boring_ , monotonous and ordinary. 

"That I enjoy it? To... what? Keep me coming back?" Sherlock only needs to think on it for a second before understanding floods him. He chuckles breathlessly. "You're as bored as I am," he says with an edge of satisfaction in his voice. "Surrounded by ordinary people. No challenge, no intellectual stimulation. You _own_ people; they're too afraid to push back. But I'm not." Sherlock's free hand grips Moriarty's hip tight again and he grinds down again to seek out that too-sharp sensation to keep the edge of his own pleasure back enough so that he can focus. It feels blindingly good, but still like far too much. It's good for his concentration. 

Then he wonders at what might happen if Moriarty _were_ denied and the curiosity runs through him for only a second before Sherlock acts. He draws back with a small hiss, sliding out of the tight, clenching heat and taking the time he needs to calm down after. He breathes slow and makes certain that Moriarty can feel it along his shoulder. 

"I've a healthy respect for your talents, but I'm not afraid of you."

* * *

Goals. Plans. A bet. Yes, there's the bet. A bet that Sherlock is left satisfied by the end of the night. By midnight. If not, Jim Moriarty will answer one question - any question - that the consulting detective selects. There's loopholes, yes. Satisfaction is subjective -- Sherlock could lie. And Jim hadn't specified _when_ or _where_ he'd answer said question. Nevertheless, he's certain that Sherlock _won't_ lie and if he does he happen to lose the bet (unlikely) Moriarty will be a man and honor his word. He'll be truthful and answer that question Sherlock Holmes deigns important enough to ask. Games are important. Games are fun.

Despite his precarious situation, he's not really helpless. There's a code word in case anything gets out of hand. The rooms have been bugged with listening devices of course and one word and Sherlock is shot in the head and he'd be covered in jelly and custard. A different word and the room is filled with men who would incapacitate Sherlock by any means necessary. Not even Moriarty is sure he'll use either word if things escalated. He doesn't want to die... Not usually, anyway. When things get rather dismal and tedious, it's temping to have a bullet meet his brain. A little Russian Roulette game perhaps. Suicide is not a new concept to Jim Moriarty, but it's a rather pathetic one for suicide is giving up, letting life's bleariness _win._ But when he was younger -- a _dependent_ (the word still makes him cringe) - he was more impulsive and that gave way to unsuccessful attempts to off himself. Children and adolescents were rather moody little gits. _Failure_. The next time - if there was to be a next time - he wouldn't cock it up.

_'You're as bored as I am. Surrounded by ordinary people. No challenge, no intellectual stimulation. You **own** people; they're too afraid to push back. But I'm not.'_

Is he utterly transparent like clingfilm? If he is, perhaps Sherlock should simply grab a roll and wrap it around his head to put him out of his misery. Before Jim can respond, Sherlock _pushes ahead_ and grasps his hip harder as he _pushes in_ and grinds and Jim is left squeezing his eyes tightly as he feels the air rush out of his body. It's all pressure and skin and sensation and heat. He moans. Perspiration is felt between them, but Jim isn't disgusted by it. Replying doesn't seem important in this moment. Rebuttals can wait, he's caught up in--

But then Sherlock is withdrawing and leaving an disconcerting emptiness in his wake. It's as much of a shock as it's a disappointment. Jim's eyes open as he feels Sherlock's breath dance across his skin. It takes him longer than he'd like to be laughing at the turn of events. Dastardly. Delightful. Deviant. 

"Sherlock, are you playing the cock tease now? Should I play desperate? Should I wiggle and whimper?" As best he can, Jim does just that, squirming against Sherlock and making a whining sound. " _Dear Sherlock, please will you fix it for me_?"

* * *

It makes perfect sense. Sherlock is honestly surprised he hadn't noticed it the moment the pills had been offered to him. A man like James Moriarty is not sloppy, but that doesn't mean he isn't victim to some of life's other vices and pitfalls. Pride and confidence and the need for distraction. To tell him to _back off_ one day and then invite him to the Shangri-La Hotel not too long after... changeable indeed. It's nothing Sherlock hasn't been experiencing. The few cases he's taken since Moriarty's display have been dreadfully boring. No heart, no drive, no _thought_ , all ordinary and predictable and bland. He's found himself glancing at his phone - or the pink phone - a few times over the last few weeks, itching for _something_ to happen the way his skin sometimes itches with a craving for distraction. And what is obsession if not a human addiction?

Moriarty has been as bored as he's been, and it's so bloody simple now. Far be it from predictable in the way most are; even at his most predictable, Moriarty is not a man to be trifled with. Like a cat batting around a wounded creature curiously, Sherlock says his piece and withdraws, breathless, trembling at the sensation he's currently denying himself as much as the sensation of cool air upon his prick. Either the lubrication had been plentiful or he's dripping with arousal (to his curiosity, he believes it's the latter, which has never happened before) and he watches with rapt attention as Moriarty's eyes snap open from where he'd briefly lost himself in sensation, his moans curling in the air like smoke. Sherlock itches for a patch or two.

It takes Moriarty a moment to glean the motive. Sherlock is curious what Moriarty will do if he's denied. It's that simple. When shock and disappointment and frustration (or whatever potent cocktail of emotion Moriarty has decided to sup at) finally give way to realization, Sherlock feels the thrill run through his bones. He's impressed him again. It's subtle, but he can read the hints, and he can glean the real meaning in the words. Moriarty is frustrated at his inaction, but not yet willing to beg. Does Sherlock _want_ him to beg? It seems like such a petty endeavor, and yet it's impossible to write the flare of heat off as anything else, not even the drugs. Apparently he does want to hear him beg. That's worth looking into later.

Later. Not now. Sherlock draws in a slightly sharper breath at his own sarcasm being thrown back at him, but a slightly breathless grin tugs at his lips. So the phrasing - _Dear Jim_ \- is something Moriarty enjoys enough to remember. He makes note of that, but more than that, he listens to the word 'please' and decides that Moriarty is a man who rarely says anything for no reason. It's as much a plea as he will allow himself. Sherlock doesn't push his luck. Instead he wets his lips and makes a point to hold Moriarty down harder, reaching down with his free hand to brace his prick properly as he lines himself back up. Still surreal. 

"You enjoy that, then. _Dear Jim_ , I mean. Because it's your real name? Or because it's tantamount to me _asking_ you something?" Sherlock doesn't wait for an answer before he's pushing back in. He goes slow at first and then inexperience kicks in as he snaps his hips forward on a slight hiss of effort. Sensation burns sharply, but this time the edge of pleasure doesn't really leave him. He can only be pushed back from the edge by sensitivity so many times before his body demands more. Sherlock shudders and makes a low sound in the back of his throat as he grinds in again. 

"And... and don't play desperate. Authenticity, if you will."

* * *

Truth be told, it had been fun setting up little puzzles for Sherlock Holmes to solve. _Tick-tock, tick-tock,_ Jim's eyes had watched the clock, the countdown, enjoying the game while wondering if he would he get to blow anyone up. All things considered, the stakes hadn't been all that high, but it had been an introductory meeting for them. And he had been able to make someone go _boom_ - _splat_ , so. Sherlock has been right -- having money and power meant people merely _obeyed_ him. Or, on the occasion, foolishly tried to outwit or backstab him. While those incidents broke up some of the monotony, it was far too easy to spot those types of betrayals before they could get anywhere near a success.

So, he'd reached out to Sherlock Holmes, his fingers scrolling through his contacts for "SH - Consulting Detective" and composed the text message. There had been a few seconds of debate, but boredom and listlessness made his finger move to the SEND button and once the first text had been delivered Jim knew he wouldn't back out. It would have been impolite to do such a thing. If things went well - like Sherlock not blowing his brains out - Jim had planned only on sharing a tablet and then seeing where things went. It's likely unwise to spend time with a man who will seek to foil future plans of yours, but perhaps wisdom is overrated. Playing it safe has never been his style, and Jim Moriarty is all about style.

When he's been in such a position before (overpowered) the individual in the role opposite had never sought to deny him. It wasn't even about achieving an orgasm really. Moriarty simply found whatever their pressure point was and pushed; he used anger to incite them into action. The last time Jim had allowed someone to _manhandle_ him had actually been with a _woman_ \-- a rather buxom secretary who was used to taking her boss' orders day in and day out. She'd loved _taking_ out her frustration on him and it hadn't taken much to key her up and encourage such aggression. 

But Sherlock doesn't want to go with the flow. This fish is now a salmon swimming upstream and Jim has to admire the tenacity. His magical fish. He feels the grip tighten on his hip and it has a grunt following. He will definitely have some lovely bruising. He feels Sherlock shift slightly, aligning his prick and Moriarty tries to brace himself. He doesn't get far because Sherlock is suddenly inquiring about the 'Dear Jim' _thing_ (it's a thing now that it's been mentioned at least three times) and it catches him slightly off guard. 

Technically Sherlock _started_ it and he's only just joined in... But isn't he _always_ known as 'Moriarty' -- an untouchable and dangerous enigma and nowhere near 'Jim from IT.' He was James growing up. He's 'JM' or Moriarty whilst doing business. Never Jim. He doesn't get to give a retort because Sherlock chooses that moment to, at first, carefully push in. However, that care doesn't last as Sherlock abruptly _shoves_ in and a groan is forced out of Jim as the intensity of being filled again hits him.

He draws in a steadying breath, eyelids fluttering. His body is tense, strung out on the the mix of pleasure and the ache. 

"No one... calls me Jim," he hisses out as knuckles turn white from the force of gripping at the blankets. That's all he intends to say on that matter. Sherlock can take it however he likes. Authenticity is what's asked of him... Well, sure, why not? Listening and obeying isn't his strong suit, so perhaps he will surprise Sherlock in giving an honest answer. 

"I'd appreciate a nice show of roughness. Of violence. Varied. Keep me guessing _."_

* * *

' _No one calls me Jim_.'

Sherlock almost misses the words due to the sheer scope of sensation racing through him but the hissed tone of voice is just barely enough to catch his attention. Sensation - pleasure and pain and an odd mix of both - twist and writhe deep under his skin, in the back of his mind. He breathes roughly as tight heat again encases him and the arm across Moriarty's shoulders is suddenly necessary in order to keep him upright. Yet through the pounding of sensation, the hissed words do register. They sound more muted, less affected, almost serious. _Honesty_ , he thinks. _Authenticity._ He's immediately paying as much attention as he can and he locks this knowledge away. Jim - not just a name, but a nickname - speaks of familiarity. _Moriarty_ to his business partners at to the government, likely _James_ to what friends he has. But 'Jim'... no one calls him Jim. Interesting. 

No mocking or laughter come from it. Sherlock can understand, logically. For a man so feared, familiarity and intimacy must be different - must be _new_. New is interesting. He watches, observing as much as he can as Moriarty's knuckles go white against the blankets, as he shudders at the force of sensation that must be just as intense for him, if not more so. Because he's watching, Sherlock can see the flicker of consideration, can see something building that he can't quite pin down. So even he is surprised by Moriarty's next statement. At first he believes it to be a farce, a trick, but then the tone - breathless, flatter, _honest_ \- catches up with him. 

Instructions. Insight. Sherlock stills at the realization and then frowns, thoughtful. A part of him wishes to push, or to deny simply to see what would happen, but the softer tone - no sing-song, no snarling, no threats - is such a rare occurrence. It's just shy of the tone Moriarty had used while telling him to back off, save without the threat. Sherlock considers the suggestion. Perhaps it isn't him who needs to be satisfied. 

Sherlock Holmes is not a particularly violent man. Intellect is vastly more interesting, but he has knowledge and strength and given that he's been asked, in a sense... he doesn't answer verbally. Not immediately. Instead he adjusts his positioning, moving higher, using his legs to press against the backs of Moriarty's thighs to keep him from being able to kick. As he moves, he presses in deeper, shivering at the bite of pleasure, and it's out of necessity that he twists his fingers in surprisingly-soft hair, forcing Moriarty's head down against the bed. Sherlock leans in closer, hovering just a few inches away from his ear. 

"'Supernova' to stop, before you call on your snipers, if you would. I'd rather not be shot for my efforts." 

Then he slides his hand down to the back of Moriarty's neck instead and presses down, grip tight enough to bruise as he draws his hips back and then snaps them forward. Sherlock knows he's battling his own body but he puts his mind above it, focusing on pressure points and curiosity. Sadomasochism. Interesting.

* * *

It's a risk to be authentic - to be honest - and to _want_ something from another. It's much easier to manipulate his partners into a violent response. This has always been how Jim's operated. When he wants - no, _needs_ \- a bit of a smack around he angers his partner. He goads. He incites. And then he encourages the behavior to continue however the individual needs to be encouraged. Sherlock, were he more ordinary, would perhaps simply seek to lord this revelation over and deny him. Jim half expects this, half expects Sherlock to exploit what he's discovered. Moriarty knows he'd likely do that if their positions were reversed - at least until Sherlock begged him - because there's something supremely satisfying about someone so normally _composed_ being broken down to the point where they'd _beg_.

Silence answers him. Jim thinks Sherlock is likely considering. At least he assumes that's what's transpiring. He doubts he's short circuited Sherlock's mind by what he's requested. It's hardly the most scandalous of requests. Jim hadn't asked to be shat on or to be treated like a pony. Plenty of individuals enjoyed a bit of violence in the bedroom, shows of aggression to keep things _interesting_. So... maybe he would let someone hit or slap him until he bled, maybe he's always been curious what's the worst someone could come up with... It's hardly _that_ obscene. Jim Moriarty. Stylishly sadomasochistic, no apologies given.

He feels Sherlock's legs re-position behind him and the sensation shifts as Sherlock shifts in _deeper._ Moriarty is still waiting for a real response when Sherlock truly surprises him. Supernova! A grand explosion marking the destruction of a massive star in its last stellar evolutionary stages. But in this situation it's a _safeword_! Jim's tickled pink at the notion and then a hand is grasping his neck and a rather rough thrust is given. _Brilliant_. He's beaming as he moans. Sherlock is apparently up for the challenge, so much so that he's thought a safeword may be necessary. 

"A safeword, Sherlock," he grits out, amusement evident despite his breathlessness from the pressure on his neck. "Sherlock Holmes just gave _me_ a safeword!" Jim tries to buck back, but the position of the detective's legs makes it difficult to get any momentum. 

"Don't you know, Sherlock, I hardly want to be _safe_ right now. You could smother me and I'd let you. You-you'd save lives. You'd help your country. Your brother. Be a hero." He's giggling at the prospect, the action at odds with the deep pleasure.

The mania is swelling, it's the excitement of a storm touching down soon, the possibility of self-destruction looming around a corner. Jim Moriarty has always like the danger. Liked the feel of a gun in his hand, knowing how easy it would be to squeeze the trigger and end lives. Even his own life if he wanted to. Will this be the end? Stuffed full of Sherlock's prick and smothered against a hotel bed?

* * *

Mental discipline is difficult while his mind is as hazy as it is, but Sherlock doesn't have it in him right now to complain about the drugs. He knows that without them, this would have been over quickly, perhaps the moment Moriarty had taken him into his body the first time. With the drugs, sensation is sharp. The pleasure is more pleasurable, the pain more painful, but both tip the scales into intensity. Pleasure grows too intense and aches unpleasantly, and it helps maintain his control. With that in mind and with the struggle it takes to clear his mind enough to put himself above his own thoughts, it takes Sherlock a few moments to properly situate himself. He's hardly done this before, but he does have _some_ experience in prolonged pain. Torture, if one is being particularly unimaginative. He'd ground his shoe into Jeff Hope's bullet wound, and he's resorted to violence when necessary to lean on certain individuals who lacked the mental fortitude to negotiate properly. Moriarty doesn't fit either bill but it's the mentality Sherlock draws on now.

He can understand a need to be hurt. He can understand the rush of pain, of endorphin, of the way it eclipses the rest of the mind. Sherlock's drug of choice varies between nicotine and heroin for the same reason. Moriarty's seems to be pleasure and pain. Given the way the man practically _beams_ as Sherlock presses in deeper, he's quite correct, and Sherlock focuses hard on breathing, on control. Moriarty's breathless under him, and when he starts to giggle, Sherlock hisses sharply and shoves him down harder against the bed. The rhythmic clench of muscle around his prick is intense and it takes a great deal of control to remain where he is and not draw back again.

"The safeword is more for _me_ than it is for you," he grinds out, somewhat breathless as he snaps his hips forward again. "I don't fancy being shot."

He doesn't enjoy the idea of death, though it _is_ inevitable. He certainly doesn't dwell on it as much as Moriarty seems to, for the excitement in his voice, the fruitless struggling, and the words designed to entice all speak of something decidedly manic. Sherlock's fingers tighten against Moriarty's neck. The idea of smothering him, of Moriarty _allowing_ him, is... an offer. Sherlock can't discern whether or not it's tempting, because he's followed that path to the end and Sherlock Holmes is nothing if not a selfish man. His lip curls at the idea of helping his country, and when Moriarty up and mentions his _brother_ , Sherlock makes a soft, disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

Sherlock doesn't really make the decision to move, he just does it. His hand moves from Moriarty's nape instead to around his throat, palm flat over the laryngeal prominence, and he presses in hard, bracing himself on his elbow as he moves his other hand around to find oddly slim wrists. Moriarty is a slight man for all that he's toned and Sherlock thinks back. He replays Moriarty's movements at the pool, calculating his range of movement based on the arm movements, and in the end he determines that his range of motion is likely average. It's with this in mind that he wrestles one of Moriarty's arms behind his back, pushing _just_ enough to almost threaten a dislocation. He eyes the other wrist, wondering if he has the time to wrestle the other back. For now, he settles for grinding in deeper, shivering and mildly breathless.

"Do leave my brother out of this," he breathes lowly, lips brushing against Moriarty's nape. "And dear, dear Jim. Don't be dull. I've never claimed nor wanted to be a _hero_. Heroes are self-sacrificing. Boring."

* * *

_'I don't fancy being shot.'_

"Bang, bang," Jim grumbles out anyway. He can picture Sherlock getting shot, eyes wide, but not an exaggerated shocked expression written on his face. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be all that surprised anyway. He can also picture them each holding a gun, the barrel of Sherlock's firearm in his mouth while Jim's would be in Sherlock's. Maybe a little gun fellatio. A nice show for each of them. Maybe he could even teach Sherlock how to deep throat. _There you go, Sherlock, Jim will teach you... Move your mouth down, relax_ \-- 

Another thrust jolts that thought from the forefront of Jim's mind. Sherlock's hand tightens around his neck and Jim wonders if Sherlock will take him up on his offer... But no. Not for country and not for the elder Holmes then either. Well, that's quite alright too. He hums in reply. Maybe living will be worth it with Sherlock in the world running around and playing detective. He could always keep an eye on him, watch Sherlock solve his little cases as John trails behind. There was potential, possibilities.

A possibility is shown to him as Sherlock's hand moves along his throat. Jim feels him shift slightly, and his curiosity is piqued. What awaits him now? Sherlock's other hand then reaches to grasp onto his wrist. It takes a moment for Sherlock to reveal what he has in mind and when Jim's arm is wrenched behind him, he whoops his support of this action. He relishes in the tight strain and the threat of dislocation. He thinks of himself like a toy figurine right now... _How far can you bend his arms, Billy? I don't know, Tommy, let's see.._

The roll of Sherlock's hips, once more, disrupts his thoughts and he lets himself moan, unembarrassed. Why hold back now, he's getting what he wants. "Right, right, sibling issues," Jim mutters. "Are you going to be the villain then?" Jim suddenly asks his voice silky. He tries to stretch his pinned arm back further, pushing for it to hurt instead of merely be very uncomfortable. 

"Dislocate it, I dare you."

* * *

Mad. It's no real surprise, but James Moriarty is a madman. Yet as Sherlock listens to the sharper whoop of delight as he wrenches Moriarty's arm behind his back, he can't deny a thread of his own interest. While he's not been a violent man by choice, he has no real qualms with violence, and it's immediately clear that this is no act. Sherlock can feel the resulting tightening around his prick, can feel the way Moriarty moves, instinctively seeking more - more pain, more stimulation. Masochism is well documented; Sherlock has a note of it himself, but he's never met another with such extreme tastes. Trust Moriarty to once again not only break the mold but overflow into surrounding molds to contaminate them. The thought almost has Sherlock smiling as he grinds in deeper, sharp cuts of pleasure threatening to sever the cord he's been so carefully monitoring.

He briefly considers grabbing hard at Moriarty's throat merely to make him stop talking, but it's hardly worth it. He's gotten quite good at tuning out speech ever since moving in with John. So Sherlock focuses instead on sensation, on calculating what he can and can't do in this position. He ignores mention of sibling issues and he begins to do the same with thoughts of him being the villain, but the tone of voice gets his attention. He feels Moriarty strain to the point of pain, hears the slide of breathlessness in his voice when he _dares_ , and Sherlock considers. He glances at the shoulder in question with some measure of hesitation.

A dislocated shoulder could pain him for months - for years. It'd certainly put a damper on his next few weeks. Yet he does seem to be chasing the pain. Sherlock considers, then he hums a soft, slightly breathless sound in the back of his throat. The closer he gets, the hotter he feels, and he grinds in deep again to chase the over-stimulation only to find that it isn't working the way it had. Acclimatization and desperation. Sherlock bites out a soft curse against Moriarty's nape. And on a whim, considering just where this is going to end up, he acts.

Sherlock's wrist yanks suddenly, though instead of moving to dislocate, he merely leans hard on Moriarty's forearm until the shoulder _half_ -dislocates. A subluxation can be just as painful but half as damaging, and Sherlock grabs tighter at Moriarty's throat, groaning roughly in the back of his throat. Pain directly corresponds to muscle tension, and the flare of pleasure is almost laughably good. He thrusts, and as an afterthought, Sherlock bends down a little further. His lips slide against the slightly damp skin at Moriarty's nape, but he doesn't track the heat or sweat. Instead he focuses on nerve clusters and selecting a proper spot. Without further fanfare, he opens his mouth and his teeth sink in against the skin, biting hard enough to bruise, and then harder yet as the rhythm of his hips begins to falter. After the bite to his lip, this is only fair. 

* * *

The show of violence is a nice one, not overly flashy, but still very effective. Children are taught to play nice, to not hit or bite or scratch, to not pull on pigtails and to _share_. Children are told to solve problems through _compromise_ and not fisticuffs. Many children don't listen, of course and when they grow up and take a look around, it's clear that power and force are what people truly respond to. Missiles and bombs enforce, not signed treaties and agreements. The threat of repercussions. The threat of war. Jim may have always been slight in build and smaller, but he's had a keen understanding that _power_ \- whether in the currency of secrets, connections or force - power is what brings a man to his knees. 

Sherlock has the upper hand right now, but by invitation. There's the threat of snipers and only Jim's _word_ that he isn't interested in having Sherlock shot dead. (He really isn't!) It's a precarious situation and by inviting a shoulder dislocation, this is undoubtedly the furthest Jim's courted violence. Usually it's... the usual. Slapping. Hitting. Hair pulling. Nails leaving welts. Bites leaving bruises. But this could be real fun, this could cause damage. _Pop_ goes the humerus from the scapula at the glenohumeral joint. ' _Every night when I go out, the monkey’s on the table, take a stick and knock it off, pop! goes the weasel...'_ Nursery rhymes to calm children, a singing game to delight them. What does pain offer him? A reminder he's alive and human? A change from the humdrum of everyday life? A rush of endorphin? Another ache to tide him over once Sherlock walks out of this room? All of the above.

Their bodies conjoined, Sherlock deep within him and occasional pressing against his prostate is divine. It sends shocks of intense pleasure vibrating through him as Jim waits for Sherlock to decide. But his shoulder is not dislocated. No popping, no weasel, no rhymes, but it's still flare of pain as his arm is yanked and pressure applied. It's likely a glenohumeral subluxation, a partial or incomplete dislocation, but it does the trick and it's a rush in and of itself. 

Jim's muscles tense, he instinctively clenches around Sherlock's prick and the cry he gives sounds distorted from the tight grip on his throat. It's brilliant. Sherlock thrusting again is brilliant too. The slide of lips at the back of his neck is strangely gentle until it changes and teeth bite. 

_Hard._ Jim shakes from the burst of concentrated pain on his nape, a slight distraction from the throbbing through his shoulder. He'd ask for varied sensations and Sherlock is not disappointing. As best as he can manage from his rather compressed position, he tries to meet and rock back into Sherlock's thrusts.

"Good, good, good," he murmurs while he wiggles the fingers on his injured arm. 

* * *

It's a complicated mix of actions and counteractions and constant pressure to keep in mind. Perhaps another would have been confused or even annoyed. One hand pinning an arm in a subluxated state while the other presses _just_ hard enough against the column of a throat to make breathing difficult but not to force unconsciousness is complicated enough. One hand needs a firm, locked pressure, the other a varying one for every time Moriarty moves under the forces of his thrusts. Add that to the actual _sex_ , followed by the force of the bite to the back of his nape, and it's likely an overly complicated mix but Sherlock feels thrilled as he rocks his hips forward, silently delighting in the very precise challenge of keeping Moriarty's shoulder halfway out of its socket without going too far over. Every thrust means a calculation, a compensation, and couple that with the way Moriarty squirms and cries out under him, tensing, it's a rush of sensation and complication for Sherlock as well.

It's not boring. It's _thrilling_. It's also quickly becoming too much for him to handle. It's one downside of something so thrilling; the human body is hardly equipped to deal with extended stretches of anything. Pleasure, consumption, physical exertion, pain - regardless of what it is, the body eventually begins to give out. Lactic acid on muscles, a loss of consciousness, the body's way of cooling off or slowing down harmful processes as a computer does to an overheating GPU. He's lost count of how many times he's come close to the edge only for sensitivity to ward it off but he won't be able to cling to that lifeline for long. Already he can feel pleasure building again, and given how much tighter the hot, slick heat he's fucking into has gotten due to tensing over the pain, he's got limited time left.

So he makes the most of it. He holds Moriarty tighter, hips snapping, teeth biting, and hands holding. One moment he closes his hand enough to cut off Moriarty's capacity to breathe altogether and the next he simply squeezes to bruise. He bites hard and in the end he can't tell if he's tasting his own blood or Moriarty's, and he feels a telltale grind of bone as he holds the arm behind Moriarty's back. It's close to dislocating but he doesn't push it the rest of the way. Instead he grips his wrist to bruise and as pleasure builds and the soft chant of encouragement registers, Sherlock quickly realizes he isn't going to be coming back from this one. 

"Inside?" He manages, voice somewhat breathless and the question vague only because he can't get a full breath. It's polite to ask, and it circumvents needing to admit to being close.

* * *

Humans are so fragile. Sherlock could compress his windpipe and he could suffocate. Sherlock could wrench his arm further and give him a real dislocation. Sherlock could bite hard enough to rip out flesh. Sherlock could stop, pull out, and leave too. That'd be a different kind of depressing disappointment altogether. But Sherlock somehow manages to simply _carry_ _on_. Pain mixes with discomfort, pleasure twists with unease and all the while it's still _exciting_ , sensations flooding and warring with one another. His shoulder throbs, his arsehole burns a little, his nape aches from the bite and then there's the uncomfortable pressure around his neck. Through it all, there's the fullness of Sherlock's cock moving inside of him and then the dizzying sparks of intensity when said cock nudges up against his prostate. One moment his breathing is cut off and his body's distress only elevates everything. He thinks he feels blood on the back of his neck, but he cannot be sure if it isn't sweat or saliva.

' _Inside_?'

On the _outside_ it's a show of politeness, but Jim knows what it means. It means Sherlock is close, Sherlock is going to orgasm and he certainly doesn't sound bored or unaffected, but will he be _satisfied_? That's the question of the hour. Jim thinks _yes_ , but he will collect his answer later. It's hardly important to find out immediately, he can have some patience. At least for this. He'll be proven right soon enough, he'll be the winner and get the crown.

"Of course, Sherlock, of course," Jim rasps out against the pressure on his throat. He closes his eyes and pushes back as best he can. "Fill Daddy up," Jim groans out and then laughs as he purposefully clenches around Sherlock's prick. He has no predilection for this sort of thing. Ejaculate isn't especially pleasant, but the idea of Sherlock coming _inside_ of him is strangely delightful -- Sherlock who doesn't like slobbering and the mess of sex is going to make a mess out of him. Men making messes. Jim likes it.

* * *

The irony is not lost on Sherlock but ultimately this seems like the lesser of all evils. Much as he dislikes the general mess of human contact - the slobbering from kissing and foreplay and the idea of ejaculate and sweat - there is no escaping it here. It surprises him in the distant way of an unimportant realization that he doesn't particularly _mind_ the dampness to their skin. The sweat is slick and tastes faintly of salt under his tongue in a way similar to the blood he can taste, and there's a very base appeal to it all. Yet under the threat of impending orgasm, he decides that _inside_ will be less mess for the both of them. It is also ultimately Moriarty's problem, not his own, which feels oddly satisfying.

It feels almost as satisfying as the voiced answer, but nowhere near as satisfying as the sudden push back, the way Moriarty's muscles suddenly clench hard and then twitch as he laughs. It's a sudden surge of sensation that has Sherlock biting harder than he intends to, his grip on Moriarty's throat tightening unbidden. It punches a low breath from his throat, rough in a way he doesn't often allow himself, and it surprises him immediately just how close he feels. Breathless, with licks of sensation racing up his spine, he hardly gives thought to Moriarty's statement, to the (crass) instruction he's given. He simply groans, breathless, and any finesse he'd had begins to falter. Each thrust is selfish, deep and ground in a way to chase his own pleasure. The edge of too much chases him the whole way but his body can no longer properly hold out under the onslaught.

When pleasure surges inside of him, not even Sherlock is ready for the sheer scope of it. The breath isn't so much punched out of him as it is ripped from his lungs and he's left gasping for air as he grinds down hard, grip tight and uncaring as he chases that edge of pleasure. He comes with a shout he doesn't intend to let out, and immediately he's forced to realize that this feels markedly different from simply bringing himself off with his own hands. It's sharper, more intense, and his teeth find their spot on Moriarty's nape as he does as he'd been told and fills him up. It's only belatedly that he relaxes his grip on the pale throat under his hands; he has no desire to _kill_ this man. Not considering how interesting he finds him.

* * *

Sex should be messy in Jim's opinions. Sex should also be vulgar and animalistic. It should be exciting and impulsive and _fun_. Exactly the kind of things _not_ shown in most of the films he's ever watched. There should be no mood music, no open windows with the drapes blowing in the wind. Also: no candle lit dinners leading to passionate love confessions either. That was all rubbish. Jim had no time to be concerned with pretenses, with women who cared how they looked with the lights turned on or men who grunted like apes and felt like that had something manly to prove. (Wrong kind of animalistic, people.) And right now Sherlock is doing an exemplary job as far as Jim's concerned.

Jim usually uses condom with whoever catches his eye. Many people are dirty, after all -- the wrong kind of dirty too. But Jim Moriarty doesn't want safe sex with _Sherlock_. Nothing should be safe and tame between an adversary. He wants this experience to be visceral, like a punch to the gut with a nice diaphragm spasm to accompany it. An equivalent to the good 'ole 'wind knocked out of you' feeling. He wants Sherlock breathless and lost in sensation -- lost in _him_. A maze of Moriarty. After all, he's has always been selfish, never the child to share his toys.

So, he clenches around the stiffness thrusting into him. He rocks back as best he can with the limiting position he's in. Jim lets his body be used and abused by Sherlock. The intensity doesn't falter after permission has been given. It's not all pleasant, no, but he's alive and there's the swell of violence, his breathing made more difficult by the hand around his throat. When Sherlock does finally come, it's vocalized in a shout and Jim feels the faint pulse of Sherlock's prick and a flood of heat deep within. The shout sounds raw and it sounds surprised. Jim grins, but it may look more like a grimace from how he's being currently being choked. The vocalization doesn't last because Sherlock is then biting him rather hard, but also letting up on the constriction around his throat. Jim gasps, struggling to regulate his breathing. 

A moment later, he rasps, "Good, Sherlock. Good boy." Moriarty sighs, sagging a little into the bed.

* * *

Is it sex that makes it feel like this, Sherlock wonders as pleasure curls and pulses through him with startling intensity. Or is it the substance in his bloodstream that heightens everything? Or is it simply both? It's worth looking into, though Sherlock knows that even if this _is_ simply what sex feels like, he can hardly stand enough normal people to bother with it when the alternative is much more intellectually satisfying. So he enjoys the burst of sensation for what it is, rocking his hips mindlessly as his teeth bruise pale skin and pleasure skims sharply over his skin. 

He's distantly aware of Moriarty's praise, though he hardly pays it any mind. Sex is hardly something worthy of praise. It's biological and messy and selfish. Even so, he cannot deny a slight twist of something that feels alarmingly like pride at the praise. Apparently Moriarty's favor - while deadly and dangerous - is worthy of striving to uncover. Sherlock shivers as the pleasure curls through him, and while the shocks of it last far longer than it would have without the medication to encourage it, it's still short-lived compared to heroin. Still, Sherlock doesn't draw away, riding out every fraction of sensation until it bleeds into something easier to handle. 

When he stills, he's breathless. He releases Moriarty's skin and leans heavily on one of his arms, panting. Sex is more physically demanding than much, but Sherlock is still surprised he feels as drained as he does. Serotonin and oxytocin, he decides. Possibly prolactin. A heavy fight or wild chase prompts adrenaline and very little of the others. Still, despite his exhaustion, he's not entirely detached enough to forget that there _is_ a second player in this particular game. Sherlock swallows down his exhaustion and instead he rises up just enough to settle his hand once more on the back of Moriarty's nape. He presses down, shoving his face into the bed, and slowly withdraws before sensitivity can become an issue. 

"What more do you need?" He asks, instead of merely assuming. 

* * *

Jim lets Sherlock have his moment. He doesn't give any further commentary, he doesn't try and buck the lanky detective off of him. Things have ceased to be directly pleasurable for Jim as Sherlock gives disjointed thrusts. The teeth against his his neck bite hard, his shoulder aches, and yet he remains docile. Jim Moriarty allows Sherlock this time to relish and take it all in. He assumes Sherlock is at least a little impressed by how much an actual fuck and subsequent orgasm can feel compared to merely masturbation. Moriarty has no doubts that Sherlock occasionally gave into urges and wanked off (only human, after all).

Eventually Sherlock stops moving and a mouth detaches from Jim's neck. Moriarty wonders if the bite will scar or merely bruise badly. Whatever is left behind, the position is rather precarious, for it couldn't be completely hidden by a shirt collar or suit jacket. Is he concerned or bothered? Quite the contrary. Jim Moriarty is a fan of sex marks. Why not advertise that he is getting 'some?' He has no petty reservations about his masculinity being threatened by the appearance of visible marks either. Enthusiastic partners ought to be commended. After all, if one is going to sweat and groan with another, might as well leave with a memento from the encounter (and he certainly isn't keeping Sherlock's 'deposit'.)

Jim feels the man on top of him lift up a little and then - rather rudely - shove _his_ head back down into the bed. Next, Sherlock's wet prick is sliding out and an odd sense of emptiness is left in its wake. It's also a reminder of the rushed preparation and rather rough grinding. Yes, Moriarty will feel this little social experiment for a few days. Lovely. Sherlock surprises him again with the question and a grin breaks out on Jim's face as he wrestles his head up to be able to speak without blankets getting on the way. 

"What more do _I_ need?" He echoes back. "It's my turn to make a mess, is it? Hmm... I should think I'd like you to touch my cock, Sherlock." Daddy would very much like to ejaculate all over Sherlock, leave him nice and messy. After all, he has Sherlock's come inside.

* * *

As Sherlock begins to come back down from the height of his pleasure, he slowly begins to check on other things that require his attention. He's not pressing Moriarty so hard against the bed that he'll suffocate, but he _has_ pulled his shoulder a little more than he'd intended. After a slight test with his hand, he relaxes his hold enough for the pressure on Moriarty's shoulder to ease. Thrilled as he'd be to dislocate it, Sherlock doubts Moriarty would truly thank him for a serious injury in the following weeks. He looks down over the map of pale skin under him, still breathing hard, and even as Moriarty turns to look back at him, his voice curled in amusement, Sherlock continues taking stock.

It's difficult to see too much in the dark but he does catch a glimpse of how wet and obscenely open Moriarty is, the lubrication catching the faint light in the room to draw attention to it. The image is more distracting than he'd expected it to be and Sherlock is quiet as he looks down at it, _almost_ missing what Moriarty's answer actually is. He rewinds the mental conversation in order to catch 1up and while he frowns at what he's been instructed to do, it's better than certain alternatives. 

In the end, this is an exchange and it makes sense. Sherlock had come and considering he's feeling more generous than he'd assumed he would have been at this point, the idea of returning the favor isn't completely abhorrent. He studies the long line of Moriarty's back for a moment and then their position. Awkward to reach like this, but after a moment, he makes his decision. 

"Do you want the pressure on your shoulder, or your hair pulled?" He asks idly as he nudges Moriarty's hips up enough to reach under him. Sherlock's hand brushes against his prick and he hesitates for a moment before wrapping his hand around it. Similar texture, but different weight and shape. It's not unpleasant, merely different, but it does require him to change his position to better keep his balance. "I can't do both."

* * *

Jim may have invited the shoulder dislocation, but in hindsight, it would have been bloody annoying to deal with after the fact. It already hurts now, but it's a manageable pain. Jim feels the pressure ease up and it has a trickle of relief following. Sherlock is a man who could _truly_ hurt him. Although out of his element, Sherlock hasn't balked or whined about the experience in a whole. Of course there had been the _comments_ , but a man like Sherlock Holmes couldn't be expected to _not_ leave a comment throughout proceedings he was involved in. Jim can relate as he's commentary king, really. It's always amused him the power that words could hold. Threats. Promises. Confessions. Speech could evoke arousal and anger, amusement and disgust. Jim Moriarty's always been quite the talker, his mouth getting him mostly into trouble rather than _out._

Jim can feel how wet he is, both with the remnants of lubrication and Sherlock's semen. If he moves, the latter will unceremoniously be making a mess, but that's for housekeeping to deal with and not him. If he wanted to, he could put on a little show and attempt to squeeze out what's been left inside of him, but Jim refrains from such a crass display. Maybe next time. 

Before Jim can answer Sherlock's question - whether he wants the pressure on his shoulder to remain or his hair pulled - Sherlock is nudging his hips up with his hand and reaching down to grasp at his cock. Sherlock must believe he wants to be kept in this position. Or perhaps Sherlock simply hadn't thought about it or didn't wish to see him and subsequently keep it more impersonal. Joke's on him because Jim has no plans on being wanked off and _not_ being seen. 

"Now, now, let me roll over, please" he instructs with the expectation of being obeyed. The hand on his prick isn't really _doing_ anything so it's easier to concentrate on requests right now.

* * *

Sherlock gives no thought to other ways to do this. He simply assumes this is the desired position and considering he has little interest in being watched while doing this, it makes the most sense. It's point A to point B in his mind. Moriarty wants Sherlock to touch him, so that's precisely what he intends to do. Still breathing hard, still partly a slave to the aftershocks of pleasure still flickering through him, Sherlock is already gearing up to start stroking when Moriarty makes his correction. Oh, he doesn't phrase it as one; James Moriarty is hardly a man to directly correct like this, when he can vaguely tease his intent into being.

It has the desired effect. Sherlock stills for a moment and frowns. So he intends to be watched, then. Given the exchange, the request is not unreasonable. So he merely draws in a slow breath and then takes his hand back. He doesn't answer verbally because it's not necessary. Instead he merely sits back and shakily moves to the side, making plenty of room for Moriarty to turn over and face him. Sherlock is quiet as he watches idly, focusing more on the way Moriarty holds and favors his shoulder as he turns (some pain, partial subluxation, should be recovered in three days or so with adequate rest) and on the weakness in his body. He looks drawn tight and pained, but considering he'd asked for it, Sherlock feels no guilt.

As soon as Moriarty has managed to roll over onto his back, Sherlock reaches out again. He sits back on his heels as he wraps his fingers around Moriarty's prick again, but instead of making a point to keep his eyes down, Sherlock glances up at Moriarty's face instead, meeting his eyes without shame. He doesn't have any. His grip just takes a few moments to adjust and then Sherlock begins to stroke, slowly enough to try and learn the shape and feel of the sex in his hand and then a little quicker because he _does_ intend this to end before midnight. 

"Is this enough, or would you prefer my hand around your throat again?"

* * *

Oh, he doesn't always like or want to be watched. Sometimes eye contact was just plain creepy, sometimes the person had a wonky eye or their sex-expressions weren't very appealing. But Sherlock Holmes has rather lovely eyes and if this might be the only time they play with each other's swords, Jim is going to ensure that there's plenty of eye contact. And anyway, they'd had a break while he was on his stomach getting fucked by Sherlock. 

The consulting detective says nothing but does oblige the request, Sherlock's hand pulling away from Jim Jr. and then leaning back. Jim huffs a breath as he slowly eases himself up, careful of his shoulder injury. He doesn't wish to agitate it on his own, there's no fun in that. He feels thoroughly fucked -- sore inside and out, a wide variety of muscles tense from straining and from their conflict. It's positively lovely to be alight with an array of sensations, to have his body put through such an experience. He feels Sherlock's eyes on him as he repositions himself, his injured arm reaching and stacking the pillows up for himself to settle against. 

Sherlock wastes no time in taking up the task again. Moriarty can appreciate a man who has no qualms getting right back into the thick of it. Sherlock also lets their eyes meet and Jim quirks a grin at him. Sherlock's hair is mussed, his face has a flush from the physical exertion, but there's also a content air about him. Yes, siree, a good fuck could do that. When the question comes - if this was enough or should Sherlock wrap his hand around his throat - Jim is a little surprised by the offer. He had expected the bare minimum from Sherlock, a quick impersonal wank. Up and down and one-two-hurry-up-James-and-be-done event. Hmm.

"Give me your hand," Jim challenges. After a beat, Sherlock complies, his free hand reaching forward curiously. Jim grasps the bony wrist guiding Sherlock's hand over his heart (yes, he has one, thank you very much). Jim places Sherlock's palm on his chest. He thinks maybe the feel of his heart beating may be of some interest to Sherlock. That settled, Jim's hand falls to his side as he greedily thrusts into Sherlock's fist. 

"If you wouldn't mind, use some lube," he brings up after few somewhat chaffing thrusts.

* * *

Sherlock hesitates for only a moment before he complies with Moriarty's demand, offering his free hand with a level of curious caution in his eyes. It means he has to adjust his position, means it's not _quite_ as comfortable for muscles already weakened by effort, but he still offers his hand up. To his surprise, the hand isn't guided to Moriarty's throat, as he'd been expecting. Instead it moves to his chest. Sherlock frowns - the barest pinch to his brows - and stills without true comprehension until he feels the sudden pulse of Moriarty's heart under his hand. Is this an attempt to humanize? Or is this merely for fun? 

He puzzles over it as the steady beat under his hand picks up speed. Beside him, Moriarty's hips are twisting and jerking, the heat of his prick shoving up into Sherlock's closed fist. It holds some interest; there are differences, and for all that Sherlock isn't _fully_ interested, there is a level of curiosity he holds over the act. It feels somewhat alien, but also pleasant. It's rhythmic and simple and Sherlock finds that simply holding his hand steady is _far_ easier than actively trying to bring either of them to orgasm.

He glances to the side at the mention of lube and while he briefly turns his eyes to the ceiling as if mildly long-suffering, he does as requested. "If you'll find it helps," Sherlock allows, and takes his hand from Moriarty's chest in order to grab at the lube. It's ever so slightly slick under his hand but he doesn't let the bottle escape, sliding his pinky under the base to brace it properly. From there, it's simple to coat his other palm in the slick. He even curls his hand into a fist in a rare act of courtesy in order to warm it up before he reaches down again and wraps his long fingers around Moriarty's cock. 

Perhaps anyone else would have been mesmerized by the act itself. Sherlock's attention is on Moriarty's face, on the flicker of emotion, the flush to his skin. A body is a body, but the man himself is _far_ different. He's fascinating even in his pleasure and as Sherlock speeds his strokes just a little, he cants his head to the side, still watching. His hand moves back to Moriarty's chest. 

"Are you attempting to humanize yourself, or is this a form of biofeedback?" He wonders out loud. 

* * *

He's already been choked a bit, so Moriarty doesn't need that -- although he does appreciate the offer. Nice of Sherlock to consider him like that. Perhaps Sherlock would prefer it, but who cares? Sherlock had already had his treat, it's Daddy's turn now. So, instead, Jim decides to offer Sherlock the opportunity to feel his pulse during this undertaking.

The action of placing Sherlock's hand over his pulse point has the great detective Sherlock confused. Jim observes the small frown. Normally he abhors seeing people's dumb looks of confusion, but Sherlock doesn't look _dumb_ at least. Perplexed. Yes, that's a better descriptor. At least Sherlock has no qualms about listening and going for the lubricant. There's a good boy now. 

"As if I care about being humanized," Jim quips, his voice a little breathless because helloooo, slick fingers wrapping around his prick and ahhhh, yes, that's better. Sherlock's hand speeds up. It’s a tight, warm pressure around him and it's rather lovely. The delicious pleasure climbs, like the roller coaster up a large incline. Moriarty certainly doesn't care about _lasting_. He's already won his bet. He can tell in the way Sherlock looks at him -- observing, ever curious, but _fascinated_ on some level _._ Sherlock Holmes is going to be back for business and Jim Moriarty will be the one to play and introduce the wonderful world of sex education to Sherlock. 

"And, you know... you know... No matter our actions or inactions, our _feelings_ , our stances on certain subject matter... you and I still remain dreadfully human."

To prove just that, Jim thrusts up eagerly into Sherlock's hand. He watches Sherlock the entire time and when he orgasms, his come coats Sherlock's hand. Jim thinks Sherlock's hand would look lovely coated in blood and semen. Maybe one day~

* * *

As little as Sherlock finds this action engaging, he cannot profess to being fully detached. His mind is buzzing from the tablet he'd been given, his skin still singing with oversensitivity. He's never quite felt the nerves on his hand to this degree before, and there's a knot in his throat when he focuses on the silken heat of Moriarty's prick against his palm. He believes he could compare his fascination with another finding a highly-textured bit of cloth while high, though he'd like to believe himself more thoughtful than that. It doesn't stop him from focusing on the sensation, however. The press of heat against his palm is engaging and even though his only fascination with jerking Moriarty off is in seeing the play of emotions across his face, he can't claim to be unaffected. 

Sherlock files away the reactions in the back of his mind for later storage. Breathlessness, the flush to Moriarty's skin, the way his heart pounds under Sherlock's hand, he catalogs all of it curiously. He keeps his hand moving as Moriarty's hips snap up, seeking, desperate. It's mildly fascinating to watch the descent into instinct. Vaguely he wonders if he'd carried the same look while chasing his own release, but he dismisses it. There's a lackadaisical air to Moriarty's expression the closer he gets. Breathlessness and flushing aside, he's much more relaxed, much more hedonistic in this pursuit, and Sherlock finds himself surprised. He doesn't mind watching it.

Instead he allows Moriarty to thrust up against his hand, and when Moriarty insists on looking at him, Sherlock meets his expression head on. He's not a man to be intimidated even while generally high. And he must admit that when pleasure crests and Moriarty falls apart under him, despite the come slicking his hand, the sight is not unpleasant. Sherlock finds himself curious, almost observant. It's... something to think about later. 

There isn't much to it after that. In the end, Sherlock rises to meander over to the bathroom so that he can wash the come from his hands. He brings back a cloth only because it had been requested of him, and he's feeling mildly more generous. The whole time he walks (slightly sluggish, a little unsteady from the drug) he wonders if and when the sniper will shoot. It seems more an inevitability than a possibility. Yet he makes it back to the bed with ease, tosses the cloth over, and reclines on the bed. 

There's no need to talk. That, if anything, is a pleasant surprise. There's no need for idle chatter while Moriarty cleans himself off, and while he's rather hedonistic with it and twists himself into unnecessary angles, he's not made to talk every second, which is a benefit. 

In the end, they bask. Sherlock doesn't ask about staying and Moriarty doesn't extend the invitation. They bask in their mutual highs, and while Sherlock does ask a few cursory details regarding business, he knows they won't be answered.

The minute the clock on the side table strikes midnight, Sherlock glances at it, nods, and then rises. He finds his clothing strewn about and while he feels less then refined as he slips it back on, he doesn't make a fuss over it. Instead he takes his mobile from his pocket and idly dials up a cab, giving the address in a bored tone. Once he has the general time, he slips his mobile back into his pocket and finishes buttoning his shirt up. 

"What time do you expect me here next week?" Sherlock asks, casual, like the concession isn't a _massive_ point for Moriarty. It isn't. He's a man of his word, and that had been satisfying. He glances at the bed and then strolls across the room, though he immediately pauses when he passes by a mirror. Backtracking, Sherlock makes a small sound of displeasure. "Assuming I'm free to go. It _is_ midnight, as you said." He tongues the bite to his lip, his frown deepening. Then he turns back, casual. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to punch me? The split lip," he adds, by way of explanation.

**Author's Note:**

> Like the fic? Please consider leaving a comment, a kudo and/or reblogging it on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/168335963788/curious-fish-a-sheriarty-fic-rating-explicit)!


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